


Carmen Cygni

by SLq



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Fresh Meat Friday, M/M, Pi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:32:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLq/pseuds/SLq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham and Beverly Katz are partners running a Private Investigator bureau. Will Graham's reputation brings Agent Jack Crawford of the FBI to his door, seeking his professional touch in proving that Dr. Hannibal Lecter is the notorious Chesapeake Ripper. Apparently, that involves Will dating the man.</p><p>Will is not thrilled, until he is. Then everything goes to hell in a handbasket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I am not sleeping with him," Will Graham says, very slowly and with emphasis on each word.

"Nobody's asking you to." Beverly Katz does not bother to look up from her phone and thus misses the glare Will has to go along with his announcement entirely.

Will snorts, shoulders jerking beneath the thin fabric of his shirt in a spasm of ill humor. "I'm certain Agent Crawford would have me with my ass in the air in ten seconds flat if it gets him this guy."

Beverly makes a face at her phone. "That's a pretty picture."

"Take me seriously for just one moment, please," Will grits out. One of the dogs whines sympathetically in the living room. Will kind of wants to whine back.

Beverly sighs and tears her eyes away from her beloved gadget with great reluctance in order to fix her partner with an expression of exasperated amusement. "I am. I repeat, nobody's asking you to put out. Yeah, your cover is kind of a twink," Will winces, "but how you play him is up to you. Just do what you usually do. It'll be fine."

"Maybe if we changed the back story a bit-" Beverly fixes Will with a glare that sends Will's earlier attempt at intimidation scurrying away with its tail between its legs.

"No changing. It's too risky this late in the game. You know this. Will," the glare softens; Will looks away, uncomfortable with the sudden shift in Beverly's attention, "What is this about?"

Will stares at the far wall. A small piece of plaster has peeled off at chest height, a spot of white amid cheerless yellow paint. "Nothing. I just have a bad-" his voice stutters over a flash of pain, steel in his throat "-feeling about this."

Beverly hesitates. "Do you want to call the job off?"

Will looks back at her, a quick glance. The concern on her face should be comforting, he knows. Instead, he feels fear creep down his back over nails made of ice. "No. He needs to get caught."

"It doesn't have to be you," Beverly tells him. The words are worn, repeated often between them. This is not the first nightmare they have faced together.

"There is no one else," Will says. Beverly's lips quirk up at the familiar response.

"Well, then," she pushes away from the kitchen table to slap a companionable hand against Will's shoulder and turn him around, pushing gently at his shoulders. "Go get dressed, Mr. Graham. We've got a serial killer to catch."

Will does as he is told, expression carefully mild.

The Chesapeake Ripper is not the first nightmare they have faced together. Will is coldly certain it could be the last.

 

* * *

 

"No wire," Will repeats, for the tenth time in three minutes.  

The agent staring Will down from across a ridiculously extravagant hotel suite retains her blankly detached look. "Standard procedure, sir," she says, words running on a loop right along with Will's. Will feels the simmer of anger beneath the woman's skin, like ants burrowing through dry earth.

Will crosses his arms. The agent's hands clench over the equipment; Will looks through her eyes and sees the thin cable wrapped around his own throat. He kind of wants to laugh, but this feels like a serious moment. Probably best if he pretends he is stable, at least until the check from the FBI has cleared. "No wire," he says instead.

The woman's eyes narrow. Will smiles back. The ants buzz closer to the surface, blood-red.

The door slams open, admitting Agent Crawford and a gaggle of his minions.  They are all in civilian clothes, but everything about them screams _cop_ to anyone with half a brain. Will wants to quit just on principle. These people are morons.

"What's the hold up?" Crawford demands. Will opens his mouth to tell him that he has been ready for quite a while, thank you very much, when the agent fantasizing about choking him with a cheap plastic cable pipes up.

"He's refusing to wear a wire, Sir."

Crawford wheels in on Will. "And why is that, Graham?" The whole of the man's body is tense, the threat of violence close and imminent.

"I work better without it," Will says. Crawford's frown tightens. "It won't hold in court as evidence," Will adds, and that's that.

"Lose the wire," Crawford tells the agent.

"But Sir, what if something happens - he might need backup-" the woman argues and Will kind of feels sorry for her, because she actually believes the shit she's sprouting. Believes that Agent Jack Crawford of the FBI cares if obscure PI Will Graham _might need backup_ when a timely disappearance is all Crawford needs to get the police breathing down his suspect's neck.

Will tunes them both out and gropes for his mobile in the tux's coat.

Beverly picks up on the second ring. "I'm coming, shit, I'm almost there - _hold that door! -_ Don't go anywhere before I see you, ok?"

"Okay," Will rasps and ends the call. Crawford's voice rises in the background, now shouting orders into a phone. The minions are bugging the suite. The agent who had tried to impose perceived safety on Will is nowhere to be seen.

"You better know your story well," a man tells Will. They'd been introduced at some point during weeks of debriefings. His name starts with Z; that's all Will can recall. "The guy's sharp. He'll pick up on inconsistencies."

"I know," Will says, too keyed up to feel insulted at the careless slight. This is not his first waltz. He knows the steps well.

"Don't eat anything he's cooked," another man offers, the words spoken around a wide smile. A joke. Will stares at him. The man's smile fades. "Because, you know. Possible cannibal," he explains. Will wants to stab himself in the eye. Someone bumps into him from behind, pushing him forward a bit. Will turns his head in automatic reaction and sees the surveillance team has moved onto bugging the bedroom.

The chatter in the room climbs in pitch. Beverly is still not here. Will does not feel all there either. His mind curls into itself in the face of so much emotional onslaught, leaving his body to work on autopilot.

"I don't know," Will hears himself say, as if from a great distance, "aren't you curious how it would taste?"

The room falls silent.

Will thinks he should probably reprogram his body a bit. Possibly employ a less sociopathic persona as a cover for times like this. He blinks at the floor, his stupidly expensive shoes, and holds his tongue over an apology that will only worsen the situation. Let them think he's joking.

Beverly arrives then, in a flurry of red skirts and shopping bags and pointed commands. "Out, all of you, we're conferring, this is private business now," she repeats to every agent that dares come at her, until even Crawford bows out of the room and lets them be.

Will finds himself sitting on a tiny, elegant, fucking useless sofa. His head is in his hands.

Beverly manages to wedge her body in the scant space not taken by Will or burgundy upholstery. "How are you doing?"

"They bugged the bedroom," Will tells her. Beverly makes a sympathetic noise and smoothes a hand down his bowed back. Will tries not to shrug her off. "The FBI wants to watch me have sex with a cannibal."

Beverly chokes on air. Will shoots her a glare. "Not funny."

"Sorry. It's just..." she bites her lip, uncharacteristically hesitant over burning her partner good. Will's feeling pretty cracked right now, but he hates being handled more than anything so he makes a _go ahead_ gesture. Beverly grins. "I would've asked for more money, if I knew I was pimping you out," she drawls and Will's face heats.

"I'm not sleeping with him," Will says, words a cross between a statement and a plea.

"You won't have to. No one can resist you when you put the charm on," Beverly tells him. Then she bumps Will's shoulder with her fist and stands. "Come on, I actually do have stuff to go over with you. Brand new info, fresh from the horse's - or in this case, Lecter's fucking hot psychiatrist's - mouth. It's good stuff."

"I thought he _is_ a psychiatrist," Will says.

"He's also potentially a cannibal," Beverly reminds. "I think he's due some therapy." Will snorts. He takes a moment to shake off his dark mood before joining Beverly where she has spread several pages and three pictures over a table in the in-suite kitchen. Two are of the same plump man, in full color. The third is a scan of a much older photograph. "Who's that?" he asks.

"Lecter's sister. Long deceased, not sure if important, but she wasn't in his FBI dossier and I don't like blank spots. Now, listen, this is the important bit - Lecter used to have this patient..."

Will nods Beverly along the story of Mr. Franklyn Froideveaux's unfortunate disappearance. His eyes keep straying to the grainy photograph of a young boy clutching a little blonde girl to his chest. There is a smile on the boy's face. Will does not remember seeing its kind in any of the pictures of Dr. Hannibal Lecter that had been forced on him, and there had been many. The man had been smiling in quite a few - always the center of attention, always surrounded by people. Always striving toward higher, better things.

Young Lecter is alone with his sister in the white and black photograph. The clothes he wears are old, his body gaunt beneath them.

He looks content.

"Will, Will, look at me," Beverly is snapping her fingers beneath his nose and Will blinks, gives her a sheepish nod. "How much of this did you miss?" she asks, eyes narrowed.

"Erm, there was a patient..."

Beverly groans, slaps him on the arm, and starts the story anew. Will pays attention this time. If Dr. Lecter truly is the Chesapeake Ripper, Will would very much like to know all there is about his life.

Has to. He _has_ to know, Will corrects in his mind - for the case, so he can catch a man who sculpts the world out of human flesh. Will's own desires have nothing to do with it. Will _has_ no desires, not of this kind. He cannot. The kind of a man who would cannot possibly be human.

A young boy smiles in a parched field, his arms filled with life.

Cannot be human.

Will closes his eyes shut and feels the blade at his throat.


	2. Chapter 2

There is too much light.

This is Will's first impression of the opera. Light everywhere, bright and all-reaching and unforgiving. Bulbous suns of artificial fire protrude from smooth walls every few feet. Crystals of it hang from the high ceilings - sprawling chandeliers made of glass knives, sharp with glitter. Will sees them fall. Sees them turn to rubies, bathed in blood.

The crowd of gentle men and women mill below, uncaring or ignorant of the fragile guillotines that loom above them. Tuxedos in somber colors play contrast to dresses of vivid hues and extravagant cuts, fluid paintings of a Fairy court.

Will takes a steadying breath and steps into their circle.

There is no reaction. Will hazards a look around, eyes cataloguing faces and gestures and body language. Most of the patrons are too involved with each other to pay any mind to a stranger in their midst. Those who are not trail considering gazes down Will's tux and, finding its make satisfactory, smile in absent welcome.

Will considers the ease with which a skin is donned and shed and begins his hunt.

Doctor Lecter is not in the lobby. Will had expected as much - a man as dedicated to appearances as Lecter seems to be would not stoop to mingling in the foyer. While the opera hall itself is likely accessible, the performance is not scheduled for thirty minutes yet. That leaves the ballroom, currently a site of banquet, and the exclusive club room on the second floor. The intimacy of the latter is better fitted to intermission, when a shared experience would allow its patrons a topic of conversation beyond shallow chatter. Some may prefer to unwind in the privacy of the clubroom before the performance. Will knows with a bone-deep certainty that Doctor Lecter is not among them. The entire night is a show for the man. He would not miss a moment of it lurking in the shadows.

The press of bodies and their respective wants grows heavier on Will's mind as he steps into the ballroom. Vaulted ceilings and yet more crystal, mirrored walls wrapping a world of glittering nothing in silver. Will catches a glimpse of his own reflection. A creature draped in blue scales stares back, expression caught between aggression and fear. Will hurriedly looks away.

The man his eyes land on seems no less strange than the Fae in the looking glass.

Hannibal Lecter is indeed in the ballroom. He cuts a striking figure in a double-breasted black tuxedo, tall and strong and viscerally masculine. The women in his orbit have curved their bodies toward him, eyes lit and mouths parted in adoring smiles. The men are no better, although the instinct driving their attraction might differ.

Will grabs a flute of champagne from a platter of them a waiter offers and drifts closer. He considers the best plan of attack. A direct approach might bear some success; a new addition to a social circle would require an established figure to play host, and Dr. Lecter appears as if he would take to the role eagerly. Indeed, this is the very plan Will and Beverly had come up with after familiarizing themselves with Hannibal Lecter's dossier.

Now, with Lecter standing not three feet away, Will finds himself scrambling to find a more subtle path into the man's company. He does not wish to join Lecter's circle of hopeful sycophants. Will needs the man's interest, completely and entirely and only for him. Otherwise, he will be forever stuck making polite conversation with whoever it is Lecter is wearing as a suit.

Deep in thought, Will turns to place his empty glass on a nearby table. A woman walking by chooses that precise moment to tell off her flustered companion by flinging her hand out in anger. Will leans back sharply, managing to avoid the stray limb by a centimeter. The unexpected surge of adrenaline has his hand tightening around the object in its grasp - reflexive, repeated, _cold metal on hot skin_ -

Will shakes his head until he feels dizzy.

The image of a dark, cold cabin melts into a polished stone floor. The blood on the ground remains.

"-alright?" a high-pitched feminine voice is shouting, almost directly in Will's ear. Will winces and leans away.

"I'm fine," he tells the agitated woman. She throws more horrified apologies at him. Will ignores her in favor of blinking at the bloody floor, then at his shredded hand. He flexes his fingers. The resulting pain is a relief. At least the blood is real.

"Please, allow me."

The warm, accented voice curls up Will's spine, forcing it straight and stiff. Will follows it to its source with hesitant eyes.

Doctor Lecter stands at his side. He meets Will's gaze with a cordial smile. "I am a doctor," he says and holds out his hand.

"I'm fine," Will repeats, somewhat stupidly. Lecter neither lowers his hand nor changes his expectant expression.

Will reluctantly extends his arm and gingerly places his injured hand in Lecter's grasp, palm up.

The doctor examines the cuts quickly, fingers careful but confident in their claim over Will's flesh. Will watches the man's face, studies the intense concentration tightening aristocratic features - for Will and Will only.

 _Webster was right_ , Will thinks. _Lady Luck really is a whore._

Doctor Lecter produces a blue handkerchief from the pocket of his tux and ties it over Will's hand. "You are very fortunate," Dr. Lecter tells him, fingers trailing over Will's inflamed skin as he adjusts the makeshift bandage. "The wounds are shallow and free of glass. You must still flush them out once you return home, but there is no danger of infection or scarring."

Will swallows dryly and tries to pull himself together. "Thank you. That was - very kind." Lecter releases his hand and Will snatches his arm back, too-quick. The doctor does not comment but does follow the retreating limb with his eyes. Will flushes.

"Will Jones," Will blurts out, horrified over the mess he is making out of everything. Maybe he did need that wire, or better yet a mike in his ear and a voice telling him what to do. Maybe he needs someone installed in his fucking _head_. At least he had remembered to use his alias. Small miracle, considering everything else Will had managed to wreck. His cover was supposed to be _suave_ , for fuck's sake.

Lecter does not appear put off. His smile retains its perfect politeness as he offers his left hand, in deference to Will's injured right. Will clasps it briefly before withdrawing once again. "Hannibal Lecter. I was looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Jones, albeit in better circumstances."

Will is very careful in exhibiting only a flicker of surprise. "You were?"

Lecter's smile is dazzling. "Of course. The Society does not see too many new faces."

Will nods politely. Right, the patron club. 'Mr. Jones' had donated quite the nice sum to the opera foundation for the pleasure of membership. "I thought it a good opportunity to meet like-minded people," Will's smile mirrors Lecter's as he explains, "I settled in Baltimore only recently. My social circle is woefully small."

"Let us widen it, then."

Lecter leads Will away from the table. The crowd parts for him and swells around Will, allowing him in their midst only on account of his walking beside the older man. Inquisitive eyes take in Will's bandaged hand, the cut of his suit, Hannibal's closeness. The eyes draw conclusions, glimmer with dark mirth.

Will imagines them popping in his mouth as he chews, fluid running over his tongue, flesh like jelly.  

"This is Will Jones," Hannibal is saying, body tilted ever so slightly toward Will. Introductions follow, men and women offering hands and asking questions and cooing over his hand and Dr. Lecter's timely rescue. Will smiles and spews lies about a life he has not led and has no interest in and keeps his attention on Lecter, where it belongs.

More than once, he finds Lecter looking back at him.

The time for the performance draws near. The crowd migrates up the stairs, a flock of birds swathed in silks and trinkets. "Do join us during the Intermission," Lecter says in parting. He had escorted Will right to his seat.

Will nods numbly. He is starting to suspect something really is wrong with the man to warm up to Will - and Will had been playing himself, who is he even kidding at this point - this quickly. It takes most people...

Well, with the exception of Beverly and Alana, it takes longer than Will is willing to wait. Lecter's overture at friendship is unprecedented and as such, suspicious.

The opera itself is tolerable. Will is not really one for the high arts; he has an eye for skill and the ability to appreciate its application, but is hardly ever affected in any measurable way. He has certainly never cried over a bunch of people singing lovelorn drivel.

Apparently, Hannibal Lecter has no such qualms. Will halts in the middle of the spacious, office-like space reserved for the Opera Society, and stares at the man in open horror. The tears themselves have long been brushed away, but the emotion that had birthed them lingers beneath Lecter's skin. Will barely has to reach out for it too spill into him, too - bittersweet and potent and fragile, so easily gone. Will manages to look away before Lecter notices him. He blinks; his eyes are misty.

"You enjoyed the performance," Lecter says, suddenly close. The twist of his smile is softer this time, more real. Had they met under normal circumstances, Will might have felt bad for using the man's own mind to snare him into a friendship. He still does, vaguely.

"It was beautiful," Will says and means it. It had been, when seen through Hannibal's eyes.

Hannibal nods and clasps a large hand over Will's shoulder in a brief gesture of closeness. Will notices the touch only when it is gone.

"Allow me to introduce you," Hannibal murmurs, low and intimate. Will's brain stutters. He follows the man further inside, feet moving on autopilot. _I am not sleeping with him_ changes ever so subtly to _I will not sleep with him_ in Will's mind. The emphasis falls on all the wrong words and Will gets a rush of vertigo, like when he dreams he's falling and wakes up certain he's dead.

The room is lit in gold. Most of the light comes from lamps placed on various shelves and side tables, their shades made of dark glass. The rest billows out from the mouth of a great fireplace, together with actual warmth. Will shudders slightly when they step close enough to feel the lick of fire against his skin. He had not know he was cold.

Plenty of chairs collect shadows around the room, all heavy wood and dark upholstery. Most of the club's patrons have chosen to confer in small groups while standing, at times right around available furniture. It is about power, Will thinks. No one wants to be sitting down while someone else towers above.

Hannibal draws to a stop at the skirts of a tight circle of men, right beside a raised podium bearing a grand piano. He does not say a word, yet the men all turn to look at him - as if feeling the weight of his presence, bending their world to accommodate it.

"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Will Jones," Hannibal smiles. Will takes that as his cue and steps forward, so he is shoulder to shoulder with the older man. It hardly makes a difference; Will feels like a stray heeling at a kind stranger's side.

The men nod at him, faces a range of polite interest. Some murmur their names back and Will tries to remember. He can, if he wishes to - his memory is nearly eidetic. He so rarely does, however, even on jobs. Especially on jobs, where the people he meets might well be dead men walking.

"You are the new fellow," one of the men, an older gentleman by the name of Christopher Grover, leans forward to say. His breath stinks of scotch. His skin is swollen with it, too, cheeks full and ripe with the fruit of drowned decades. "From Chicago, I hear."

Will smiles and nods and keeps carefully away from Grover's mind. Alcoholism is a vice he cannot tolerate, despite - because of - long years of helpless empathy with his father. Will knows what drives men to drink. He knows how they feel during, what they do after, how it affects those around them. Knows they don't - can't - give a fuck.

"Chicago, yes," he says and sees Mr. Grover face down in a river that runs red with his blood.

"Newly into money, eh? Well, good on you, getting some culture. Better late than never, right Lecter?" the man guffaws, humor magnified by the scotch in his veins. His companions very politely look elsewhere.

"Right," Hannibal says after a beat of silence. He turns to face Will fully, back to the group of men. "I believe that is enough introductions for one night."

"I am not insulted," Will tells Hannibal once they have covered enough distance so his voice won't carry to the men the doctor had just snubbed. "It's true. The money is not mine, and I wasn't much for high culture before this."

Will Jones had inherited a rather sizeable fortune from an estranged uncle. He had lived in poverty until then, one of thousands stuck in Chicago's persistent slums. The story runs as parallel to Lecter's own childhood as it viably can. The hope had been that if all else failed - the 'all else' being Will's amazing social skills - Jones' past might inspire enough sympathetic interest on Lecter's part to allow for a connection to be established.

Apparently, cutting one's hand wide open worked just as well.

"Then allow me to be insulted on your behalf," Hannibal says. "And to apologize. Please believe me when I say that I would not have introduced you to Grover, had I been aware of your aversion for his kind."

 _Rich assholes?_ Will wants to say, half as a joke and half in the hope that his crassness would offend the doctor enough for them to never touch on this subject again. But he is not supposed to be Will Graham here. His role is entirely passive, accepting. Malleable, for the doctor's pleasure.

Will swallows and asks, "What do you mean?" and lets the man show off as he pleases.

Hannibal's face retains its apologetic cast but his mind tastes very pleased indeed when Will reaches out to touch. "Your reaction was quite severe. Am I correct to assume that you have witnessed a relative struggle with alcoholism?"

"There was no struggling involved," Will says. "Only a very willing march toward kidney failure."

"I am sorry. Were you very young?"

"When he died, or when he started drinking? If the first, no. If the second, I don't remember him without a bottle in hand." Will keeps his eyes on the raised edge of Hannibal's right shoulder. He hates this, hates the taste of old anger in his mouth - like tar, a lump of crusted blood. The glee he absorbs from Hannibal sticks to it, turns Will's own thoughts sickly sweet. "You are quite good at this," Will forces out over a tongue heavy with rotten honey, "Are you a psychiatrist, by any chance?"

"I am. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable."

 _Like you didn't get off on it, you sadistic bastard_ , Will thinks and smiles. "Not at all. But please, let us talk of something else."

Hannibal inclines his head. "Intermission is almost through as it is. Have you had a chance to explore Baltimore, Will?"

Will shakes his head. "No, not really."

Hannibal smiles. "Would you like  a tour guide?"

"Are you volunteering?"

"There are a fair number of museums worth exploring. Some places at the old side of town may be difficult to find if you are not looking for them as well. That is, if you would have my company."

Will looks at Hannibal - the easy, regal grace of him, barely contained by the expensive cloth he wears, the room itself. He tries to think what he could have possibly done tonight to inspire interest in this man. The glitter of a broken champagne glass stained with his blood is the only thing that comes to mind.

"Yes," Will says. "Thank you."

Hannibal Lecter smiles and offers him a business card. Will places it in the tux's breast pocket. Hannibal watches him do so, eyes black in the dim light.

They return to their seats in the great concave hall some time after that. Will has no memory of the second half, all two hours of it. He does not leave early only because he is certain he feels Hannibal's eyes on him from time to time. The man is far away, in a booth well above the main area where Will sits. Will is certain he is looking nonetheless.

After, Will loses himself in the crowd. Hannibal does not seek him out again, of which he is glad. He lingers behind nonetheless, then takes a cab to a diner he had once visited when in town. He's not ready to go back to the hotel yet.

The waitress at _Mama's Table_ greets him with raised eyebrows and an incredulous once-over. Will orders a truly disgusting-sounding burger and slouches off to a booth in the back. Then he calls Beverly.

"I got his number," he tells her, just to hear her exhale a burst of worry she must have been holding all night and giggle.

"I knew you could do it, sugar." Beverly sobers up, voice lowering. Crawford's probably hovering nearby. "Is it him?"

"Not sure. There's definitely something there, though. Something not very nice." Will catches sight of the handkerchief tied around his right hand. He trails a finger over the soft fabric. His blood is in it, now. Will wonders if Hannibal would want it back anyway.

Then he wonders when the hell Lecter had become _Hannibal_ in his head.

"Will? You still there?"

"Yeah," Will croaks, pauses to clear his throat. "Listen. Put this guy's name down for observation: Christopher Grover. If he turns up dead or missing, I want to know."

Beverly hums in agreement. "What did he do?"

Will thinks of the darkness in Hannibal's eyes.

"He was terribly rude," he says.

The words taste of someone else's mind.


	3. Chapter 3

The briefing with Crawford post-opera had gone as well as it could have. That is to say, the man keeps Will up well past three in the morning dissecting every single word Dr. Lecter had thought to utter that evening. Will had omitted some details here and there - Jack Crawford does not need to know that Hannibal Lecter had cried because of a goddamn _opera_ \- but is certain that his report is more detailed than anything the FBI has ever gotten from a field agent.

Crawford makes him repeat the whole thing twice, the prick, and then proceeds to sit back and _look_ at Will, expectant with a heavy side-helping of disappointed.

"What," Will demands after it becomes apparent that the man means to carry on in this vein until acknowledged. Or possibly strangled. If Will is to go to jail for murder, he'd rather it not be over something so dull.

"Did Lecter make an overture?" Crawford asks briskly.

Will blinks at him for a bit, because it is three-forty in the morning and he has not exactly slept last night either. Then he _gets_ it. The rush of embarrassed anger works better than a shot of espresso to the blood.

"He gave me his number, didn't he," Will grits out. Crawford's expression does not shift the slightest bit.

"I trust you encouraged his attention."

Will clenches his hand around Hannibal's silk handkerchief until the wounds it covers sting. "To a degree." Will had been pliant enough, but he hadn't exactly bent over backwards for the guy. Part of it is Will's own limits; there is only so much he'd do for a job, and he draws the line pretty hard at prostitution. This ain't James Bond. He's not about to fuck his way through the criminal underbelly of the United fucking States just to get a couple of slimebags in jail. Not when good detective work can do about the same.

That aside, it had been fairly obvious that Hannibal does not find weakness an attractive trait.  The man had enjoyed cutting into Will's psyche under the guise of a heart-to-heart tremendously, but Will hadn't missed the pleased spark in Hannibal's eyes when Will had taken charge of the conversation toward the end. The good doctor may find rudeness a sin, but willfulness certainly seems to snare him well.

Crawford does not appear to agree. His scowl deepens and he leans forward so quickly Will flinches back in pure instinct.

"Mr. Graham, do you understand that every day the Chesapeake Ripper remains at large, the lives of innocent people are in danger?" The words ring with accusation.

"I am working as fast as I can," Will says, gripping at sanity with both hands. One of them should keep a level head. Given how blindly mad the Ripper makes Crawford, Will's rapidly feeling the responsibility shift to him.

Will is pretty certain they're collectively and entirely fucked.

Crawford looks at him for a while longer. He is obviously itching to order Will around. There is frustration in the clench of his hands atop the table, anger in his eyes. He manages to keep himself in check; Will suspects the man's forbearance is more due to Beverly lounging threateningly on a sofa in the background than Will's own sorely lacking intimidation skills. Will is not insulted. Beverly can put the fear of woman in men who'd long stopped fearing God.

Crawford reminds Will to use his FBI-issued mobile to contact Lecter - " _Tomorrow_ , Graham. I don't care what kind of conclusions he's going to draw about your character, you ain't a dame in a Victorian novel," - and report again as soon as they have set a date and destination. Will nods so much his neck feels like it's about to detach from his shoulders. Crawford shoots him a look that is equal parts _don't screw this up_ and _you're going to screw this up, aren't you_ before he leaves.

Will spends a long minute with his forehead pressed against the door after the man is gone.

"Bit of a dick," Beverly comments.

"Raging." Will's lips tick up at Beverly's muted chortle. "I'm beat. Going to bed."

"Yeah, me too." Beverly pushes to her feet and stretches, arms thrown over her head. Despite the call from the diner, Beverly hadn't fully relaxed until Will had walked through the door some hours ago. She takes a moment to study Will, now that they are finally alone. She'll want the details Crawford would not care about - the bits that had to do with Will and not the mission, not Doctor Lecter. Will used to pretend he minds the attention. He's pretty sure Beverly could tell his bluff from the very start, but was kind enough to mock-push him into sharing instead of calling him on it.

Now, she simply asks and Will simply answers.

Beverly pursues her lips. "You've got all your pieces?"

Except when there are fucking cameras every fucking where.

Will's shoulders stoop. No privacy anywhere from now on, it seems. The agents monitoring might be able to tell Beverly is using code, but fuck them. Will is not the one being investigated here. He doesn't owe Crawford anything more than what's in his contract.

"Yeah," Will says eventually and tries not to feel too guilty. One little freak-out does not count as losing a piece - a nice little metaphor for Will's fractured mind. He had slotted what had slipped out with the whole glass accident right back in the mess inside his head fairly quickly.

Will's eyes fall to his bandaged hand. With Hannibal Lecter's help, but still.

"It was kind of him, to look after you when he didn't have to," Beverly comments. She is looking at his hand too, considering. "Maybe it's not him."

"Cruelty and kindness are not exclusive concepts," Will mutters.

Beverly's eye roll is almost audible. "I see we have reached the dramatic portion of the evening. I think I'd better be off." Will smiles and lets Beverly wrap her arms around him in a brief hug. "Night, Will. Sleep in tomorrow."

"Yeah, you too."

Beverly snorts and waves, pulling the door closed behind her. She'll probably be up and running in a few hours, back on the trail. Will is in the business because he's good at it, because there's shit little else he can do with a discharge from the force and some teaching creds to his name. Beverly, though - Beverly _loves_ the job. She is thorough and dedicated and fucking badass with a gun. Will is certain he had not imagined Crawford throwing her considering looks, ever increasing the more time she spends working with his team.

Will stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. The light is perfectly bright, yet his eyes seem pitch black. He must have wandered in; Will does not remember when that had happened. The faucet is on. The water makes soft gurgling noises in the marble sink. Will watches it wash red then white then red again and tells himself he's just tired. He splashes some on his face. Most of it remains white. The rest disappears quick enough that he can pretend he had not noticed the color.

Will unties the handkerchief and washes his hand carefully. The wounds are shallow and already closing up, but Hannibal had said to clean them so Will does. He grips the handkerchief next, lets it unfold fully and studies the pattern of bloody smudges pressed into the thread. It's likely ruined.

Will folds the blue fabric into a neat square and leaves it by the sink.

The bed is nice and big. Will tries not to think of the dozens of tiny eyes looking at him peel off the tux and then his own, less glamorous underthings. Fucking voyeurs. He is about to slide between the covers when he remembers Hannibal's business card in the tux's breast pocket. Will thinks of leaving it there for all of a moment before sighing and pushing up and off the bed. The tux is in the closet. He had taken the time to hang the whole ensemble, vaguely guilty over how much fed money had been spent on making Will look like he belonged in Hannibal's world. In the dark, the drape of black fabric resembles the body of a man dangling by the throat. Will would know. He has seen several.

Hannibal's business card is thick, the paper slightly coarse. Will brushes his thumb over the raised letters of Doctor Lecter's name and contact information as he heads back to bed. The card goes on the bedside table.

Will feels the grain of it against his fingers long after he falls asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Saturday morning finds Will Graham pacing the length of his suite in the nicest slacks he has ever owned and never fucking wanted. Their edges have been _pressed_ , for fuck's sake. Will is extremely aware of the fabric pressing against his skin, partially because it is terribly soft but mostly because it is stretched embarrassingly tight over Will's ass. Whoever's responsible for Will's wardrobe had either gotten Will's size wrong or extremely, disturbingly right. Nobody had asked Will his measurements. How the fuck did one get a job at the FBI fitting people from a distance, anyway?

"Morning, sweet-cheeks."

"Fuck you," Will grunts.

Beverly does not even slow down, just grins wider and continues advancing on him like a sleekly fashionable jungle cat. Will takes a moment to bemoan the fact that Hannibal Lecter is particular to rumpled blokes. Beverly would have spun the man around her little finger within the day, had she had half a shot.

Instead, they're sending in Will, dressed as a tart. Good-fucking-luck.

"Damn, but you clean up nice." Beverly trails her eyes up and down Will's body, lingering _down_. Will turns to face her fully and pretends his cheeks are not pink.

"Crawford & Co. clear out?"

"Yup."

Anxiety bubbles up Will's throat. He swallows several times. "I guess I should go down to the lobby, then."

"You've still got an hour." Beverly sits on the sofa - the bigger one facing the flat screen TV - and pats the space next to her. "Sit."

Will sighs and shuffles closer, then pointedly sits all the way on the other end. Beverly rolls her eyes.

"So. What's the plan?"

"We've been over this," Will grumbles at his freakishly shiny shoes. They had. To mortifyingly excruciating detail. If Will never hears Jack Crawford say the words 'romantic advance' again, it would be too fucking soon.

Beverly cocks an eyebrow and pursues her lips. Will lasts about three seconds of expectant scrutiny before he grunts and gives in. "He picks me up at ten, museum tour until twelve. Maybe lunch." Will plans to attempt an invitation, anyway. Hence the anxiety. "Then back to the hotel, I guess. Alone," he adds, spotting Beverly's smirk mid-stretch.

"Crawford wants you to draw as close as possible," Beverly reminds.

"I don't want to come off as a creep." Will is starting to suspect Crawford has certain _expectations_ of how homosexual relationships develop, pace-wise. Since Will has never actually been with a man in any romantic capacity, he can't really contend Crawford's ill-informed opinions.

He's still not blowing Hannibal Lecter in the museum loo.

Will guesses he and Crawford are at an impasse.

"I bet he's already smitten with you," Beverly is saying when Will tunes in. Will flushes and wishes he hadn't. "He set it all up pretty quick, didn't he?"

Hannibal had indeed been terribly pleased to hear from Will. He had suggested both the place and the date, the latter mere two days after the opera and their first meeting. Will shrugs, embarrassed and still a bit red and overall very confused with his body's reactions.

"He just happened to have time this weekend. And he did give his promise to show me around." Hannibal strikes Will as a man of his word.

"I bet he'd love to _show you around_ ," Beverly leers. Will shoots her an unimpressed glare. "Come on, Will. He's taking you to the _art museum_. Art is his _thing_. He obviously wants to show off!"

Professionally, Will has to agree. Personally, he cannot see the appeal. Clothes can only do so much for a man and Will had not been playing his part. At the moment, Will Jones is too terribly similar to Will Graham to warrant notice from the likes of Hannibal Lecter.

He's not about to tell Beverly that, though. He doesn't want her to concern-yell at him over self-confidence issues he denies he has. There is also the fact that Will has still not shared his slip in character with her. Or Crawford. Or anyone, for that matter. For all they know, Will is still playing the suave twink.

"I should probably go," Will mutters.

Beverly looks at him for a bit before pushing up from the sofa. "Walk me down."

Will grabs his blazer - too fucking short to cover his ass, what good is it even - and obediently falls in line.

"I won't tell you how to do your job," Beverly tells him as they pause in front of her room, three floors down from Will's.

Will smiles. "Even though you really want to."

"Even though. Go get him," Beverly pushes up and presses a dry kiss to Will's jaw. Her face is a bit scrunched up when she pulls back. "And shave, you freaking porcupine."

"Nope," Will tells her cheerfully and sets for the elevator.

"Nobody likes beard burn!" Beverly calls after him.

Will smirks to himself and lifts his hand in a wave without turning.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal Lecter walks into the lobby of the Four Seasons hotel at nine fifty-seven.

The space is quite busy for this early in the morning. Judging by the number of expensive suits milling about, the reason is likely some sort of big-wig conference. A number of older gents shoot Will appreciative looks. Will keeps his eyes and empathy carefully averted. This has never happened before. Will blames all that talk of putting out.

Hannibal is easy to spot. The weight of the room seems to shift when he strides in, the fabric of space dropping solid and sudden at his feet. He is in another gorgeous three-piece suit: dark-gray twill, the tie a shade lighter and tucked into the breast of a high-rising waistcoat. A dress shirt of deep plum peeks underneath. Hannibal moves in it with as much ease and confidence as he would in his bare skin. On him, the suit is but a mantle on a King - fitting his status, but hardly its source.

Will squares his shoulders beneath his own blazer and sets forward.

They meet halfway. Hannibal smiles at Will and offers his hand. Will shakes it, managing not to pull away quite as quickly this time around. Hannibal's smile grows ever so slightly.

"Thank you for meeting me," Will says and makes an effort of keeping his eyes on Hannibal's face.

"My pleasure," the man says. Only it is more of a purr and fuck, this is most definitely a date. There goes Will's hope of keeping it platonic. "Shall we?"

Will nods numbly. Hannibal pulls him into a mundane conversation about the weather and whatnot. The older man makes sure to keep his steps to Will's, allowing them to walk shoulder to shoulder. Will feels strangely exposed. He has grown used to following after others, always at least half a step behind. Standing on the frontlines, so to speak, is quite unnerving.

Will glances at Hannibal's profile.

Not bad, necessarily.

Hannibal owns a Bentley. Will presses a hand over the car's roof, fingers stroking the smooth finish in a barely detectable caress. Then he is lowering himself into the front passenger seat, trying not to blush over the fact that Hannibal had held the door open for him.

"Do you like cars, Will?" Hannibal asks as he guides the Bentley away from the curb. Will adds _incredible sharp observation skills_ to his mental profile of the man and considers how to answer. This part of Will Jones' personality had been left hazy on purpose, allowing Will better flexibility. In the end, Will elects to go with the truth.

"More of a boat person," Will shrugs. "I do appreciate quality make, however."

From there, they somehow launch into a discussion of motors and engines. Will finds himself explaining the difference between inboard and outboard motors as they pull into the museum parking lot. He is terribly surprised when the car stops moving beneath him.

"We're here?" slips out quite against Will's intent.

Hannibal smiles with great satisfaction. "That we are."

Hannibal opens his door for him and helps him up. Will kind of hates his life at the moment.

The Baltimore Museum of Art is an impressive building. The style is very similar to the Chicago Art Museum, with which Will had familiarized himself extensively in the construction of his character. Both structures imitate the architecture of ancient Greece, towering pillars and gleaming white stone and a generous spill of steps included. The inside is equally imposing if less austere. The large, rich paintings and fragile artifacts on display lend the hollow halls a certain chaotic clutter Will finds charming.

Beverly is as always terribly right. Hannibal Lecter _had_ meant to show off, and is doing so with barely-disguised glee. Will is led across multiple rooms, stationed before tens of intricate paintings, and explained why precisely they merit the title 'art.' Hannibal's mind buzzes with contentment. Will listens to that as much as to the man's voice. The resulting calm is pleasant.

" _Princess Anna Alexandrovna Galitzin_ , by Louise Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun," Hannibal says. Will looks from the man's soft expression to the painting in front of which they stand. A beautiful young woman in flowing robes reclines against a plush pillow. She is rose-cheeked, her eyes turned away from the viewer. Her hair is in rumpled curls around her face. "This piece is among the crown jewels in the museum's collection."

Will studies the painting through Hannibal's eyes. Vigée-Lebrun had indeed possessed great talent, the painting of Princess Galitzin a lovely study in color and light. Still, Will feels as if the skill of the master is not what he is supposed to be paying attention to.

"Who is she?" Will asks.

"A Georgian Princess, reigning from the mid-1700s to the early 1800s." Hannibal studies the painting. Will studies Hannibal. "She married into one of the largest and most noble Russian families. By doing so, she ensured the prosperity of her own declining clan."

"Marriage diplomacy," Will hums.

"Yes. A rather fine way to settle old grudges and pave the way for mutual benefit in the future," Hannibal comments, then smoothly transitions to a nearby painting of a man on a horse.

Will squints at Hannibal's back, then the painting of Princess Galitzin. After a moment, he shakes his head resolutely. Crawford's constant barrage of nonsense must be getting to him, if he is even entertaining the thought that Hannibal could have meant something by that historical snippet.

Princess Galitzin seems to be holding in laughter. Will scowls at her and turns his attention back to Hannibal, just in time for yet more sporting trivia. Apparently, men _really_ liked their horses once upon a time.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal inquires, with the greatest charm and subtlety Will has ever had the dubious pleasure of being turned on his person, whether Will would like to accompany him to lunch. Given that Will had been attempting to untangle his tongue and construct some sort of invitation for the past half hour, his answer is obvious.

Hannibal smiles like Will has given him a most pleasing gift. Will tries not to blush, then tries to remember that he should not have to _try_ in the first place.

They end up in a lovely establishment with an open view of the Wyman Park Dell. Will lets Hannibal order for him under the pretense of not knowing what is good. Hannibal's delight is so terribly obvious. Will wonders if all men are this easy. If he himself is this easy. Given that his last proper date had been a good year ago, Will cannot say for sure.

"Is the dish to your taste?" Hannibal asks.

Will looks at his plate. Half a pork chop stares back. He had barely felt the taste, too preoccupied with Hannibal's soft commentary about the surrounding area and his own thoughts. "Yes. Perfect. Thank you."

Hannibal takes a sip of his wine. His eyes are of a color similar to the bold red in his glass. Will watches a drop roll back into the pool at the bottom. He wonders if it will taste of metal.

"-now that you have the means?"

Will blinks. He bites his lip and curses himself. This. This is why he has not been on a date for nearly a year. "I am sorry?" he manages, certain his cheeks are redder than can be blamed on the wine.

Hannibal's eyes curve slightly. "No need for apologies, dear Will. Perhaps I have held you too long."

"Not at all." Shoot. Had he managed to look disinterested? Push the man away? "Really, what was your question?"

Hannibal obliges. "I was simply wondering if you plan to pursue a career in Baltimore, or if you chose to move to the city for another reason. Pardon me if it is not a topic you wish to discuss."

"No, that's fine." It is. This is safely within the confines of Will Jones' pre-calculated profile. "My mother was from the city. We lived here when I was very young, and I - I guess I wanted to see it again. See if I could live here." Will ducks his head, makes a show of playing with his food in awkward shyness.

"If you could be happy here, as your family once was," Hannibal says and Will nods, offering the man a small smile. Hannibal's expression softens further.

Will feels a touch of sourness at the back of his throat.

The conversation shifts to lighter topics from there. Will encourages Hannibal to indulge his art aficionado self and subsequently learns much more about oncoming museum exhibitions than he would have ever wished to. It is not as tiresome as he might have expected. The guileless passion the man exudes when discussing a subject he enjoys is heady. By the end of dessert, Will is half-convinced he too would very much like to spend an entire afternoon studying carved pots dug up in some desert or another.

Hannibal pays for lunch, despite Will making a grab for the bill as soon as it arrives. Doing so had in fact been a great miscalculation, as all it had earned Will was Hannibal's large hand covering his atop the padded folder.

"Please, allow me," the man mutters, low and intimate. Will promptly flushes.

"You have already spent so much time on me today," Will protests. "Let me repay you."

Hannibal's face splits into a truly devilish smirk. "Your company is a precious enough reward."

Will is so red, their waiter asks if he can get him something in a vaguely worried tone. Will is tempted to ask for a different life.

Hannibal drives Will back to the hotel and escorts him all the way to the elevators. Will knows their every move is being monitored. He makes an effort to stand as close to Hannibal as the man allows.

Judging by the hand Hannibal presses against the low of his back and the wink he offers in parting, Will could have plastered himself all over the man and still not crossed any boundaries where the doctor is concerned.

Beverly ambushes Will as soon as the elevator stops on his floor.

"He would have _so_ kissed you if you'd given him the green light," she says. "Also, _damn_ , the man wears a suit well."

Will has nothing to say to either of these things. He keys the door to his suite open and pulls at his tie, looking forward to a long shower and possibly an even longer nap.

"Graham," Crawford grunts. Four other men turn their heads from where they had - yep, been watching footage from the lobby on a huge laptop. "I expect better effort next time."

Will stares at his own flushed face, pixilated and blown up for a roomful of strangers to see, and very carefully ignores the shadows snarling within a darkened corner beyond Crawford's right shoulder.

"Yes, sir."


	5. Chapter 5

"Franklyn's back."

"Whu-?" Will grunts and tries to blink the room into focus. Beverly's face takes the place of the ceiling. It is not an unusual sight, and Will almost manages to turn over and pull the blankets over his head.

Beverly pinches his ass. Will squeals and sits up, eyes wide with affront.

"Jesus, what the fuck?"

"Awake?" Beverly coos. "Good. Franklyn's back. We need to regroup." She throws a shirt in Will's face. Will obediently pulls it over his head, only remembering to check it is not one of Beverly's once it's on. She had done that to him once. He had gone all the way to the supermarket before figuring out why the thing pulled so hard over his shoulders.

He squints down at himself. The shirt is an ugly, threadbare gray. Safe to say it is one of his. Will wonders what Hannibal would think if he saw him in. Then he pretends he had _not just thought that, what the actual fuck_ , and focuses on Beverly pacing around his bed.

"Where was he?"

"Took a little vacay to wine country without bothering to tell anyone."

"Seeking attention?"

"Seeking a _punch_ in the _mouth_." Beverly seems seriously angry. Will blinks. "They were searching for him, Will. The feds. The police. Time and money wasted on some overly-dramatic asshole, when there are people who actually need help out there." Beverly's hands clench at her sides.

Will pushes out of bed. "Sounds like he would've served society better as someone's dinner."

Will stretches, toes pointing down and neck cracking. He pushes up from the mattress and almost sits down again. His body feels strangely heavy. Will pulls on a pair of sweats absentmindedly as he tries to remember when he had last slept through the night. At least a month. Two, maybe - the nightmares that had followed the Fisher case had been particularly nasty. He hadn't quite recovered since. Bodies woven in fishing nets would rise amid the darkness of his mind at unexpected moments, bloated and translucent. Like pearls.

Will rubs at his eyes and turns. "Crawford here yet?" Beverly doesn't say anything. Will looks at her through the cage of his fingers. "What?"

"You picking up Lecter?"

Will frowns. He turns his focus inward, seeking bleed-through. Nothing but Will's own demons greet him. "I don't think so. Why?"

Beverly's lips pinch briefly. She stares at him for a moment longer before shaking her head. "Nothing. Come on. Let's get started before Jack shows up and starts demanding things." She leaves the room. After a moment, Will follows.

 _Jack_ , is it?

Franklyn Froideveaux's reappearance does throw a bit of a wrench in the proceedings. The man is the only tangible link to Dr. Lecter.  Had Franklyn turned up with his limbs rearranged and bits missing, Crawford would have been able to pursue an investigation of the man in earnest and with the full backing of the judicial system. As it is, the whole operation might be in jeopardy. The FBI is unlikely to fork over money for expensive hotels and suits and unstable PIs based on one man's hunch for too long, after all.

Crawford yells as much, once he arrives. There is barely contained violence in his body. Will thinks Crawford would've strangled Franklyn Froideveaux himself, had the man been present.

"He looks like he hasn't slept in a while," Beverly comments quietly. Crawford has left the room to take a phone call.

Will snorts. "Got some experience there."

Beverly glances at him. She seems about to say something, but Crawford storms back inside at that moment. The man advances on Will without preamble, stopping close enough that the tips of his shoes brush the bottom of the couch. Will leans away. Beverly scoots back along the sofa.

Crawford bends closer, purposefully crowding. His anger wraps around Will and _chokes_. "I need results, Graham. _Immediately_. Do you understand me?"

Will imagines crashing the porcelain coffee cup he holds into Crawford's face. Enough force and the cup will shatter, shards tearing into the man's skin. "I am working. I do not know what you people are expecting-"

"I am expecting you to do what you were paid to!" Crawford shouts. A bit of spittle ends on Will's right cheek. Will's skin rises with answering aggression. "Lives are at stake, Graham!"

"And so is your reputation. Bet I know what's more important to you, _Agent Crawford_ ," Will snarls. Teeth glint in his mind, bared beneath pointed muzzles.

Crawford's eyes glisten in slits of black and white. Anger clogs Will's throat, like tar.

Beverly leans over, placing herself almost directly in front of Will. Between him and Crawford. "How long do we have?" she asks.

Crawford leans back by increments. His eyes do not leave Will. "A week."

"We can do it." Beverly turns to Will. "Right?"

Will swallows. The anger does not wash down, but a bit of sense returns to him with Beverly's urgent calm this close. "Possibly."

Crawford seems about to knife in again. "Definitely," Beverly corrects. "We'll definitely have him by the end of the week." She does not add, _if it is him_. Crawford does not seem capable of entertaining the possibility that he's got the wrong guy at the moment. Will thinks that rather telling of the whole fucking case, but bites his tongue. He doesn't really have much moral ground to stand on, given that he's in this mostly for the money. Had Will had any interest in catching the Ripper, he would have started his own investigation when the very first body was discovered a year ago.

Will has clippings of it. The New York Times had featured a particularly well-angled shot of the scene: A table, set for two, with a man's hips and upper thighs as the centerpiece. The pelvic bone had been cracked, skin and flesh cut at the very center and parted outward. The victim's hands served as setting plates. Each cupped a gouged eye in its palm. The display was an invitation, a tease - sensual and dangerous and terribly exciting.

It took the FBI three more bodies to figure out the Chesapeake Ripper is a cannibal. Two more before Jack Crawford came pounding at Will's door.

Will exhales.

"By the end of the week," he agrees. Crawford nods stiffly and stalks off to confer with his team.

Will drinks his cold coffee and nods at Beverly's quiet encouragement. A table clothed in blood sits before him.

He wonders how the Ripper would display him, were he to choose Will as his next block of marble.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, Hannibal Lecter gives guest lectures at Johns Hopkins University from time to time. In addition to running a private clinic, socializing with half of Maryland, and possibly killing and dismembering people on the side. Will wonders where the man finds the time. Will barely has enough energy to shower most days.

To be fair, Hannibal is far from a permanent fixture on the University's teaching team. He is extremely well-received, however. According to their source, the man had declined several offers of full-time employment as a professor in the Psychology department. Will imagines Hannibal does not need the money.

Will ducks into a large lecture hall. Hannibal is already behind the podium. He is not preparing for the oncoming lecture, as Will would have in his place. Instead, he seems to be engaged in a conversation with an aged woman and a man with a habit of shifting from one foot to another ever so often. Will classifies them as academics. He is wondering whether to continue advancing to the front and make Hannibal aware of his presence when Hannibal abruptly lifts his eyes. Their gazes lock.

Hannibal smiles, slow and pleased.

An answering smile softens Will's face. His feet carry him forward almost mindlessly.

Hannibal steps down from the stage as Will approaches it and offers Will a hand. "Will. What a pleasant surprise." His eyes crease, warm and dark. Will grins.

"I was passing by and saw a flyer. Your name stuck out."

"It is wont to do that." The curl of Hannibal's lips sharpens. "I am glad of it, in this case. I meant to call you today."

"You did?" Will finds he does not have to fake the slight hitch in his voice. It is a troubling realization.

"Yes. I enjoyed our time on Sunday tremendously. I would very much like another chance to get to know you."

Will swallows and does his best to keep his eyes on Hannibal's. Will's usually the one asking - terribly ineptly - for second dates. He's also refused more often than not. To be so honestly wanted is... "I am free tomorrow."

"I am afraid I cannot wait that long." Hannibal's hand still clasps Will's, a remnant of a greeting that had fast turned into something much more intimate. "Would you happen to have time to spare for lunch today? There is a restaurant on campus that serves passable Mediterranean fare."

Will laughs, short and startled. "Only passable?"

Hannibal's smile widens. "In comparison to that of my own make, yes." His eyes sparkle with purposeful arrogance, but the slight slant of the man's body toward Will's lends the words a certain weight. An opportunity, if Will wishes to make them so.

_One week._

Will swallows. He looks down, at his hand in Hannibal's; drags his eyes up a suit of panned red and soft gray. "Am I reading this right?" he says softly. For him and Hannibal alone.

Hannibal's lips part over a soft exhale. "I do hope you are."

"In that case." Will releases Hannibal's hand and takes a step back. "Yes. I would like to have lunch with you today, and I would very much like to eat at your table, in your home, whenever you will have me."

The furrow of confusion weighing Hannibal's brows smooths. The man's smile reappears - not a sun through parting clouds, but a lightning in a clear sky. "Dear Will."

Someone clears their throat. "Dr. Lecter. It's about time." Will finds it difficult to look away from Hannibal long enough to make a note of the man standing behind him. He wishes he had not exhorted the effort a moment later; it is the man Hannibal had been speaking to, and he is glaring at Will like a jealous bint.

"Will you stay for the lecture?" Hannibal asks. Will brings his attention back to the man, where it belongs.

"Of course."

Hannibal's expression is that of a cat with a mouthful of feathers. _Narcissist_ , Will thinks, rather too fondly.

Will takes a seat at the very front, directly in front of the podium. Hannibal stands over him, voice soft and smooth and calm as he relates the horrors he had learned from sick men's minds. Will swallows the words as dry earth would rain. Hannibal's shadow blankets him, soft and comfortable. A skin Will would like to own.

Hannibal's eyes glisten like live coals within the darkness of the hall. Will wonders if they would burn, if he were to hold them in his palms.

An hour and a half passes with terrible haste. People are standing up and clapping before Will quite realizes the lecture has ended. He stumbles on his feet, feeling a bit drunk. Thoughts of approaching Hannibal are quickly put to rest when a surge of bodies makes for the front and almost mobs him. Will makes his way through the crowd, toward the now empty back. He glances back once he is safely out of the clutch of humanity. A line has formed in front of the podium. It curls all the way to the end of the stage.

Will sighs and takes a seat.

[he invited me over] he texts Beverly.

The response comes three seconds later, rapid-fire and so very Beverly Will has to smile.

[now?!!]

[you've got no back up]

[Will do not make me drive down there and kick your ass]

[restaurant today. the other invitation date pending] Another glance reveals Hannibal attempting to disengage from what is fast turning into an impromptu seminar. The older man catches Will's eyes. He smiles briefly before turning a suddenly severe expression toward his entourage. He is on his way down awfully fast after that.

[gotta go] Will types in. He waits for Beverly's [good luck!] before he deletes the entire conversation. Better safe than explaining strange messages to a possible psychopath.

"I hope I am not interrupting?" Hannibal says once he is close enough to speak without needing to shout. He does not stop walking until he is at the side of Will's seat.

Will pockets his mobile and tips his head up to smile at him. "My assistant. She's been a great help this past year."

"Your life has changed drastically, and in such a short time," Hannibal says quietly. "I am happy to hear someone has stood by your side."

Will's smile fades into something more genuine. He bows his head briefly and nods. "Thank you." The words emerge rough and uneven.

Will clears his throat and stands. The action brings him closer to Hannibal. The man steps back, with obvious and great reluctance. Will flushes.

"Lunch?"

"Yes." Hannibal presses a hand to the low of Will's back, a brief touch meant to connect them rather than guide. Will leans into it almost unconsciously. "This way."

Hannibal leads them down another hall and out a side door that opens into a garden fit in the juncture of two wings of the main building. The dirt path is framed by beds of red and orange tulips. White anemone peeks beneath, petals fluttering with the soft breeze. Above, cherry trees bleed the last of their blooms. The grass is studded with pink droplets. Beauty in passing.

They do not speak - not in the garden, not in the courtyard beyond. Hannibal walks close, shoulder brushing Will's every few steps. Will lets him.

The restaurant is a quaint place with glass doors and checkered tablecloths. Hannibal holds the door open for Will, pulls his chair out once they are shown to a table. Several heads turn to watch them. A couple of people nod to Hannibal. Will's flush grows, the reason less pleasant this time around.

"You know people here."

"It is a popular place with University staff." Hannibal scans the menu. "I recommend the kabob. The meat tends to be a tad drier than it should, but the bouquet of spices the chef uses to compliment it more than make up for the quality of the cut."

Will nods, only half-paying attention. He feels eyes on him. Judging him, measuring him against Hannibal. He does not have to empathize with any of the onlookers to know he'd be found lacking.

Hannibal does not say anything as they order. He selects the wine - white, bearing a name Will cannot be bothered to untangle or remember - and a dish that seems to include squid. Will sticks with the kabob. The waiter notes his order, eyes darting to where Will's hand lies on the table, close to Hannibal's. Will pulls it back. The man bows smoothly and leaves.

"Is this making you uncomfortable, Will?"

Will looks up. "Not at all," he says through a clutch of panic. Hannibal's expression remains carefully blank.

"It is not my intent to force you into anything."

Will wants to laugh. "You're not. Trust me." It's true. The maybe- sadistic serial killer is about the only person in Will's life currently not pressing him to dance a certain way. It is horrifically hilarious.

"Do you oppose to the idea of being seen with a man, or to being with a man in general?"

Psychoanalysis. And Will had thought the day could not get better. He thinks what Jones would say. Then he remembers he had long ago stopped playing Jones and answers as he wants.

"Both. I haven't - That is, I didn't think-" Will leaves off. The sentiment is honest but the wording is a play, a snare.

Hannibal tries very hard not to appear overly pleased. On his end, Will hides a smirk behind a sip of his water.  

"You must tell me if I overstep," Hannibal says at length.

Will lowers his lashes, a coquettish move half-covered by his playing with the straw in his glass. "And if I wanted you to overstep?"

Hannibal is quiet for a beat, enough to prompt Will to look up.

The hunger in the man's face steals his breath.

"Dear Will, you only need to ask."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally purchased the Hannibal fanbooks, BANQUET and KABUKI. Update inspired by the gorgeous art found within them <3


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the meal passes in amiable talk.

Will enjoys the kebob. He enjoys the accompanying conversation even more, which is quite a bit stranger. Talking with people for any length of time requires establishing a certain connection that Will has rarely been able to find and, quite frankly, had not been overly keen in seeking in the first place. Too much empty talk and shallow pleasantries. Will does not see the point.

Conversation with Hannibal is different. A play of words, both terribly direct and pleasantly obscure - a painting rather than a script. Will listens with half a smile, responds around grunts of laughter. Aside the need to watch for tells, it is by far the most comfortable conversation he has been a part of.

Desert is caramelized plantain with goat cheese and honey. A circle of gold ringed by cream and slices of apricot, the treat is a sun balanced upon a white sky. Will hesitates briefly before dipping his spoon at a corner. The flavors go together well, combining in a subtle burst of taste that has him briefly closing his eyes in order to savor them better.

When he opens them again, he finds Hannibal watching him. The man's own mouth is slightly parted. His eyes are intense and on Will's lips.

 _Fuck_ , Will thinks, sort of helplessly, _he's kissing me today_.

Hannibal breaks the stillness by cutting into his own dessert. "What did you think of the lecture, Will?"

"It was nice," Will says quickly. Hannibal's raised brow has him chuckling self-consciously. "Not looking for platitudes, are you."

"Just your honest opinion."

Will pokes at his plate. "I am not an academic. My opinion doesn't carry much value."

Hannibal's lips stretch in a pleased smile. "Was it that terrible?"

Will laughs. He leans back in his chair, spreads his legs beneath the table. "No, not at all. I agree with most of the points you made."

"But not all." Hannibal takes a bite. Cream smears slightly at the bow of his lips, thick and white. "What gave you pause?"

Will swallows and tries to remember. "Your analysis of psychopathy."

Hannibal licks his lips clean and reclines in his own seat. Unlike Will, he keeps his back straight and his legs together. "What did you find of issue?"

Will considers how to answer. This is getting into dangerous territory. Will Jones' background would not have allowed him to form the opinions Will holds. Will would have to lie, or otherwise pretend a high level of ignorance. He finds the thought terribly aggravating.

"Please, Will," Hannibal says, mistaking Will's silence as hesitance born out of shyness. "Do not keep your mind from me."

Will notes the wording. The sentence is not out of the ordinary for Hannibal's speech pattern, equal doses quaint and eccentric. Easily disregarded. Not normal by far.

 _Strike one_ , Will thinks.

Hannibal pushes his spoon into the soft body of his dessert. Will sees his own brain in the cake's place, watches it cave in beneath Hannibal's hand.

"Will?"

"Eldon Stammets," Will blurts out.

Hannibal places his spoon down and turns his attention to Will. "The man who made a mushroom garden out of human flesh."

"Yes. I - read about him, back when the case was all over the news." Will drags his spoon through his desert, smearing cream and cheese in a diagonal across the plate's hard skin. "He doesn't fit your profile. Stammets was capable of emotion. He wanted to connect to people. Hell, his entire psychosis was based on his desire to do just that."

Hannibal leans slightly in. His shadow falls over Will, cool and comfortable. "Would you classify Eldon Stammets as a psychopath?"

Will shrugs. "What else's there?"

"There are plenty of mental disorders to choose from. The DSM grows bulkier by the  year."

"Serial killers are psychopaths by definition. Otherwise-" Will falls silent.

Hannibal reaches over. The tips of his fore and middle fingers graze Will's knuckles. Will relaxes his hand. "Otherwise?" Will shakes his head, lips pressed closed.

"How are we to distinguish between _them_ and _us_ ," Hannibal finishes for him.

Will's head jerks in a half-nod. He does not lift it, preferring to stare at the mess he had made of his desert than into Hannibal's too-shrewd eyes.

Hannibal is quiet for a moment. Will swallows spoonful after another of mushy sweetness, mostly for something to do. This is why he does not date. Crawford will have his head.

"I constructed my lecture with its audience in mind."

Hannibal speaks quietly. Will wonders if the man worries they will be overheard. More likely, he had simply wanted to catch Will's attention - draw him out of his brooding and back to himself. It works, too. Will looks up as Hannibal speaks, eyes gradually climbing the man's face.

"People wish to hear simple stories, built upon comfortable concepts and painted in monochrome. Colors are for fantasy. Murderers who love and grieve and yearn is a thing of nightmares." Hannibal pauses. Will watches him carefully. There is something heavy behind the man's eyes, something rich and full-bodied rising behind the swell of his lips. Will sees himself cradling Hannibal's face in his hands - bearing down with his full strength and breaking the man's skull. The warmth would pour into him, then.

Color suffuses Hannibal's skin - veins of black that twist and expand until they swallow the man's face.

_"Are you afraid of becoming a nightmare, Will?"_

Will gasps, a drowning man rising above water. He shakes his head once, twice, and jerks back into his seat. The wine glass at the side of his plate is caught by Will's elbow. The sound of it breaking against the floor is a shrill scream.

Hannibal stands up and rounds the table in a hurry. Will cannot look at him, afraid he will find something that does not exist. He is red and feels cold. Sweat dampens the back of his shirt. "Sorry," he rasps.

"Nonsense." Hannibal presses a large hand over Will's forehead, brushing the sweaty fringe of curls gently into place before he slides to his knees at Will's side. "Look at me, please."

Will does, with much difficulty.

Hannibal looks back calmly. Will is not certain what he is reading from the man, but it is certainly not revulsion. There is not a vein of tar marring his skin.

"I believe you have a fever," Hannibal declares. He keeps his voice quiet. His arms cage Will's body - one curved around the back of Will's chair, the other resting against the chair's seat. His knuckles just brush the outside of Will's thigh. The point is to keep Will focused on him and not the curious faces around them. Likely a therapy trick. Those had never worked on Will.

As it turns out, Hannibal does.

"Fresh air will help," Hannibal murmurs. Will finds himself leaning closer, head bowed, eyes on the man's. "Would you like to go outside? I will join you in a bit. We can take a walk through campus."

Will nods. Glitter catches his attention. He freezes. "Oh. I should reimburse the, um, owner. I would like to pay for the meal, too."

"I invited you," Hannibal reminds.

Will's grin is broken. "I don't think you knew what you were inviting."

"You are wrong." Hannibal stands. His body forms a wall in front of Will. "Do not hesitate to lean on me when you need to, Will. Being able to take care of you pleases me greatly."

Will wants to pitch forward and press his burning forehead into the man's stomach. "Why," he mutters, and holds himself as still as he can.

Hannibal lays his hand atop Will's right shoulder. Will looks up at the touch, helpless.

"Your vulnerability calls to me."

Will licks his lips. "It calls to what in you?"

Hannibal's expression retains its cast of careful concern. His eyes gleam, like the teeth of something wild.

"I am not yet certain."

_Strike two._

 

* * *

 

Hannibal does not tarry. He guides Will to a bench outside the restaurant before walking back inside, steps purposeful. Will has just enough time to breathe, curse his life, and scream internally before the older man returns and offers Will his hand.

Will accepts it warily. Hannibal helps him stagger to his feet. He fails to let go. Will looks at their joined hands and clenches his fingers. Hannibal's grip grows tighter.

"Is this alright?"

It is not. Will has not held hands with anyone since high school. It had felt too intimate then. It is doubly so now, with a man and under false pretenses.

"Yes," Will hears himself say.

Hannibal smiles.

They walk back. The campus bustles with students and visitors. No one takes a second look at the two men walking, hand in hand, beneath a canopy of hanging willow.

"What college did you graduate from, Will?"

"None," Will mutters, eyes on a pale bell tower shining proudly beneath the midday sun. "Didn't have the time."

Hannibal squeezes Will's hand briefly. "What about now?"

Envy rots at the dip of Will's tongue, the taste of it sudden and illogical. Will Jones does not exist. Will Graham has nothing to be jealous of. And yet.

"Maybe," Will says and ends it there. Hannibal does not push.

They walk around the prettier parts of campus, steps slow. Hannibal murmurs historical tidbits and local gossip, all meant to make Will smile. Will does. He marvels at the fact that Hannibal's attention does not grate, that its purpose is not to patronize or mollify a potentially unstable individual.

They are standing at the base of a sprawling oak tree, discussing tree rings, when Will's phone buzzes in his pocket. "Excuse me," he tells Hannibal and steps away to check the screen. Two text messages, both from Beverly.

[if this woman approaches you, do not say a word and break any camera on her person]

The next message contains a single picture. It features a mugshot of a smirking, red-headed woman. Will sees her skin peel back. A fox's muzzle peeks out from within the ruin of her face.

Will blinks the double-image away and sends a quick, [will do] before deleting the conversation. He sets back for Hannibal and the tree with undue haste.

"Sorry. My assistant again."

Hannibal nods. "Have I held you too long?"

Will hesitates. The case weighs heavy, but he is worn thin - much more may unravel him. "No. Not at all," he tries.

Hannibal  does not appear convinced. "I would appreciate honesty between us, above all else," he says, not unkindly.

Will sighs. "Sorry."

"No need for apologies." Hannibal walks closer, stopping a step shy from Will. "Did you drive here?"

Will shakes his head. "No car yet. Taxi."

"Then please, allow me to escort you to your hotel."

Will thinks about refusing for all of a second. Hannibal will certainly press until Will caves, however, so what is the point  to begin with?

"Please," he says instead, and is treated to the sight of a most content smile. His own lips tick up in response.

They walk to the parking lot, close, hands brushing but not laced together as they had been before. Hannibal's Bentley sits near the exit. Hannibal opens the door for Will before circling around and taking his own seat. Will wonders if his flush is due to the fever, or the guilty sparks of pleasure acts of care on the man's side have begun to inspire within him. Either way, he's screwed.

Will does not feel like talking. Hannibal, familiar with prickly personalities, wordlessly presses on the radio. Classical music spills from the speakers. The soft, rich notes of Chopin's Nocturne No.9 soothe the rough edges of Will's mind, lulling him in the warm place between sleep and wakefulness.

Hannibal gentles him through their arrival, turning the music down by increments and allowing Will to come aware on his own. Will smiles at the man, truly grateful. He stretches a bit in his seat as Hannibal leaves the car and comes around to Will's side. Will realizes he had waited for the man to open the door for him and help him up only after the fact.

The lobby is quiet. The few people within are hotel staff. They smile in a pleasant, absent way at Will and Hannibal before turning their attention back to their tasks.

Will hesitates at the elevators. This is a suitable place to part. He glances at Hannibal and finds the man looking at him. The slight amusement shining in his eyes has Will straightening his spine.

"You may escort me up, if you would like."

The smile in Hannibal's eyes bleeds to his lips. "I would."

They enter the elevator. Will stares at the doors and feels Hannibal's presence at his side, a burning warmth. The seventh floor comes too slow and too quickly at once.

Will leads Hannibal down a long corridor. A few doors dot it, the suites within larger than those at the lower floors. Will pauses in front of his own rooms. "715," he announces needlessly and turns to face Hannibal.

The hallway is bright. Hannibal's face is in shadow.

Will tries to smile, only just managing over the tightness in his throat. "Thank you for today. Truly."

"It is I who should be thanking you."

Will snorts. Hannibal does not react. He seems to draw stiller, more into himself.

Hannibal takes a step closer. Will takes one back and bumps into the door.

"Tell me, Will," Hannibal breathes. The shadows have eaten his face.

Will feels a tremor start at the core of his being. He is trapped. The world has narrowed to him and Hannibal and it is terrible, glorious. Exhilarating. He wets his mouth, opens his lips.

" _Please_."

Hannibal presses against him with a sudden, brutal force. Will's body molds into the door. His chest pushes against Hannibal's, legs opening to admit Hannibal between them.

His gasp is swallowed by a cruel, hungry mouth. Consumption.

_Strike three._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My KINGSMAN fanart book arrived. Am super-happy, so - tada! Another update. :)


	7. Chapter 7

Hands cover him. Large hands, warm and slick. They slide over his chest and grip Will's throat, tip his head so it lies against a broad shoulder. Will gasps. The hands tighten. He feels his own heart beat between them, caught in a cage of flesh and bone.

Wet fingers curve over Will's lips. Will parts his mouth and they slip inside to press against his tongue. They taste of metal - of sharp, lovely things. Will sucks at them and spreads his legs. He is braced on his knees. His arms are folded at his lower back, wrists crossed but unbound. A muscled stomach crushes them against the swell of Will's buttocks with each forward thrust. Will's fingertips graze the head of a hard, slick cock. Will moans around the fingers in his mouth and pushes back. Saliva dribbles down his chin, catching at his stubble and dripping to his chest. It feels blood-hot against his skin. Will whimpers and strains, cock full between his legs. He is such a mess. He's made such a mess out of _everything-_

"Shh, my dear. Let me take care of you."

Will stills. He looks down at the hands that hold him - one penetrating his mouth, the other slipping down his body to sheathe his cock. Will knows the voice in his ear. He should know these hands, too. He does, but not like this. Not hard and cruel and painted black.

Sharp nails curve over Will's penis. Tender flesh splits, blood mixing with seminal fluid. The pain is terrible. Will screams with it and thrusts up into the savage grip. He falls against the hardness at his back on the down stroke, wanting to take it too. Wanting the hurt everywhere. There are soft words against his temple that he cannot hear; a fire rages in his skull.

 Will bites down hard. Bone cracks between his teeth and fills his mouth with wine.

"Dear Will."

Will comes choking on his own blood.

 

* * *

 

Beverly looks at Will for the entirety of lunch. A heavy, meaningful stare not at all deterred by the agents milling about and the fact that Crawford is yet to stop talking at Will. He has been at it since the morning. There are blueprints spread out on the table around plates of room service food. Will thinks they are of Hannibal's house. Awfully rude, that. Crawford taps at a section labeled as "basement." Will nods, not hearing a word that comes out of the man's mouth, and takes a sip of his coffee.

Metal stings his tongue.

Will drops the cup. It barely makes a sound as it rolls over the carpet, but the splash of black over the table and floor and Will's pants more than makes up for it. Crawford halts mid-sentence. Several heads turn to Will.

Will bows his own. His fingers are tense, curved around empty air. He presses his hands flat over his thighs. They stop shaking after a moment.

"You okay, Graham?"

Will nods.

Crawford looks at him a while longer, then picks up where he had left off. The man is in a better mood today. Almost pleasant, with an edge of gleeful anxiety as he goes over the plan for Will's visit to casa Lecter. Will does his best to listen this time around. When Crawford pauses to breathe, he adds his two cents to the pile.

"Agents shouldn't be stationed that close to his house. Another block down at least." Crawford opens his mouth, likely to argue. Will forges on. "I'll need a whole day, not half."

Beverly sets her own cup down. It cracks harshly against the table. The sound melts into a sharp, " _What_?"

Will sets his mouth in a mulish frown and says nothing.

"You're planning to spend the night?" Crawford asks after a moment. Will nods his head tersely. "Well. Not a bad idea." Beverly protests. Both Crawford and Will ignore her. "If you are sure."

"He'll be more comfortable with me in the morning." Will stumbles over the words. His head is filled with honey - no, with bees. They buzz and bump against each other, a clout of gold-black blood. Will shakes their hive. "He'll be more likely to let things slip."

Crawford agrees. He calls for two of his underlings - Price and Zeller, Will remembers now - and sets for the door.

"You're going?" Beverly shoots to her feet. Crawford slants her an unimpressed look.

"Yes. The Ripper's not the only murderer who needs my attention." Will snorts a quiet, _could've fooled me_ that Crawford stoically ignores. "We'll talk details later tonight."

He leaves. The few agents in the room trail behind him, Price and Zeller snickering over something. The door closing at their backs echoes dully in the suddenly quiet room.

Will bends to pick up the cup. It has rolled under the table; he chases after its handle with trembling fingers. The shaking is gone once it is in his grasp. Will sets it on the table carefully. His pants cling unpleasantly over his legs.

"Will."

"I should change."

" _Will_."

Will sighs and lifts his head. Beverly has not moved any closer. She knows better than to crowd him for answers. The worry in her eyes is enough of an irritant. "I'm fine," Will says.

Beverly's lips thin. "You are not." She speaks over Will's protest to the contrary, "What happened last night, Will?"

Will swallows, throat dry. "What?"

"Last night. After your date with Lecter. What happened?"

"He, um," Will refuses to duck his head. "He kissed me." The blush is harder to control.

Beverly's foot taps once before she catches herself and falls still. "And then?"

Will opens his mouth. No words come - there are none to be found, because Will-

"You don't remember, do you?" Beverly asks quietly.

Will slowly shakes his head. It feels too heavy, so he lets it drop into the cradle of his hands. "Shit."

Beverly sits beside him. She is close enough for Will to touch if he wishes to. Will doesn't. He stiffens when she lays a hand against his arm. "How do you feel?"

"Like a pig roasting on a stake," Will rasps.

Beverly's hand trembles, or maybe it is Will's body that shakes. "We should-" she begins. Will shrugs her touch off.

"No. I'm finishing this."

Beverly's face is pained. "Alright," she says.

Will nods once, grateful. Shame clogs his throat for a moment; he doesn't deserve Beverly. "Last night. Did I...do something?"

Beverly's mouth twitches. "You fainted."

Will blinks. "No."

"Yes." The smile on Beverly's lips widens. "You swooned in Lecter's arms like a-" Will is shaking his head, wide-eyed. "-heroine in a bad romance novel. He had to carry you-"

"Stop," Will pleads, horrified.

"-inside. He tucked you into bed and kissed your forehead and it was so fucking _adorable_." Beverly sighs, going for theatrical. Her pupils are dilated, Will notes with rising hysteria. "Kind of a shame you missed it, actually."

"I want to die," Will says, more than half-serious.

"I have a copy of the tape."

Will stares at Beverly's smug smirk and attempts a facade of indifference. It lasts all of three seconds.

Will sighs. "Show me." Beverly giggles and grabs for her laptop.

The video begins in what must have been the middle of their kiss. The camera is imbedded in the upper-left corner of the doorway, Will remembers. Its position affords a clear view of both Will and Hannibal as they press against each other. Hannibal's eyes are open, the man's face intensely concentrated as he pulls Will's bottom lip into his mouth. Will's expression, on the other hand-

Will grabs the laptop and angles it so only he can see the screen. It is illogical, he knows - Beverly has already seen the video. _Crawford_ has seen it, a horror Will cannot really think about right now. He keeps his eyes on the man cradling Will in a bright corridor instead. Large hands, finely-boned. Possessive in their grip over Will's jaw and neck. The memory of Hannibal's hands on him is vague. Right at this moment, Will cannot untangle the ghostly sensation from the violent passion of last night's dream.

 _Nightmare_ , Will corrects in his own head.

On the screen, Will's face suddenly slackens. His eyes roll back just before he slumps in Hannibal's grip, hands slipping limply over the man's shoulders. Will winces. He makes for the world's least attractive bait. Hannibal pulls back with a surprised, _"Will?"_ Realizing what had happened, the man adjusts his hold until he has an arm under Will's legs and another at his back. Will notes the ease with which the doctor lifts him up. Hannibal is stronger than he allows himself to appear.

Hannibal locates Will's key card and unlocks the door. The screen flickers as the camera feed changes. This happens twice more as Hannibal makes his way through the suite and into Will's bedroom. The man lays Will down on the right side of the bed, then circles around to pull the covers down on the opposite side. Will's face flushes as he watches Hannibal take off his shoes and blazer, the latter accomplished with the man supporting Will's upper body while working the sleeves down Will's arms. On the screen, Will's head dips to rest against Hannibal's shoulder.

"Shame he's a serial killer. He'd make a good boyfriend," Beverly says. Will startles; he hadn't heard her come up behind him. "Beverly-"

"Shh, here it is!"

Will turns his eyes back to the computer. Hannibal is looking down at Will's body, now covered by the thick duvet. Will remembers the hot, heavy darkness that had enveloped him in his dream and swallows. Hannibal bends at the waist. He presses his lips to Will's temple with a soft murmur.

_"Dear Will."_

Will gasps and slams the laptop shut.

"...Okay." Beverly says and reaches for her computer. Will lets her take it. He stands as soon as its weight lifts, suddenly restless.

"I'm going to go change," Will announces.

Beverly watches him warily. "I have to get some things from my room. Meet in an hour?" Will nods. There is a beat of silence, then footsteps. Will does not relax until the door closes behind his partner.

Will does need to change. The jeans have grown stiff where the coffee stains them, the thread dyed to murky brown. Will grabs another pair from a duffel stowed under the bed. He pauses with the dirty jeans hanging off his calves, considering. Will had not had time to shower this morning, what with Crawford banging at the door and the bathroom too far from the bedroom to allow discretion. Will flushes, recalling why he had needed discretion in the first place. He wonders if Beverly had seen him cum in his sleep. The bees in his head buzz louder.

Will toes off the stained jeans, then adds his boxers and shirt to the pile. He is naked when he steps out of the room.

"Jesus!"

The man standing in the doorway takes a startled step back. Green eyes dart from Will's face to his bare chest before snapping back up. The man's generous mouth twists in a sneer.

"Will Graham, I presume. I'm Agent Broslaw. I'd like a word."

"And I'd like you to leave."

Broslaw leans his shoulder against the doorframe, presumably to prevent Will from closing the door. Will narrows his eyes. If the fucker thinks Will won't bash his face in with the door, he is in for a surprise and a broken nose.

"It's about the case you're...assisting with."

"Talk to Crawford." Will's hands twitch with the need to cover his flaccid penis. Will keeps them at his sides. He is not the one intruding.

"I have." Broslaw's expression darkens. Will feels the man's disgust. He feels his interest, too - the hot, shame-bloated hunger that has green eyes dipping down Will's body every other breath. "He is unwilling to listen to reason."

"If you're looking for reason, you've got the wrong guy."

"Exactly."

Will grits his teeth. "Say what you want to say, Agent."

Broslaw looks at Will like a farmer might cattle on the way to slaughter. "Quit the case."

"No. Will that be all?"

The man's eyes narrow. He is larger than Will, shoulders broader and arms thicker. Violence thrums beneath his skin in high waves, on the cusp of overflowing.

Will widens his stance ever so slightly and bares his teeth.

"Reconsider," Broslaw says.

"Leave now, and this stays between us." The man falters, expression smoothing. "Crawford doesn't strike me as a man to take disobedience lightly," Will adds. He wants the man gone as much as he wants Broslaw to push into the room. To give Will an excuse.

Broslaw steps back. "You'll be sorry," he  says.

Will exhales sharply. "Get out."

Broslaw leaves. Will strides after him and locks the suite's door from the inside, then pushes a nearby chair beneath the handle. Little good it'd do him in terms of privacy, given how many cameras are on his bare ass at this very moment. Still, illusions are important.

Will takes some pleasure from slamming the bathroom door shut. It's the only room that lacks supervision from the FBI tech department. Will had insisted on shitting in solitude.

A mirror hangs over the sink. Will does not look into it, eyes slipping to the cabinet meant to hold toiletries beside it. A spill of red cloth catches his eyes. Will draws closer. His lips part over a startled laugh; a handkerchief twisted in the shape of a rose sits in the middle of an empty shelf. Will reaches for it. It is soft in his hand, the fabric silky and luxurious. Hannibal's. Will's grip tightens briefly - enough to feel a hard bulge at the flower's center.

Will urges the handkerchief open reluctantly. The cloth unfolds, layer by layer until it lies flat in Will's palm. A white pill gleams atop a yellow post-it note. Will lets the pill roll into his empty hand and picks up the missive.

_Aspirin. In case you wake with a headache. -H_

Will smiles. Headache is too mild a word for the pain laying siege to his brain. He sets the note back on the shelf and looks at the pill. Chalky, hard-shelled, the word "aspirin" carved in its body.

Will presses his palm over his mouth and swallows it dry.

It might be the shower or it might be the pill, but the hurt does lessen by the time Will is dry and clothed once again. He even manages to smile at Beverly when she walks in sometime later.

"Don't you look chipper." Beverly dumps her arm-full of folders onto the table. "Ripper victims. Dig in."

Will pulls a file out of the pile at random. It's like playing jenga, only with corpses. Paper corpses. Will traps a smile behind his teeth.

"You okay?" Beverly asks.

"Peachy." Will thumbs through the file in his hands. A man carved hollow, insides swapped for bouquets of flowers. Will sets the file aside and grabs another, then another still. He knows them by heart, every word, every picture.

The fourth folder gives him pause.

"This isn't one of his."

Beverly leans over the table to take a look. Half a dozen pictures capture every angle of a man's decapitated head. The top of his skull is missing. A tangled mess of rose thorns rises above his halved forehead, sitting in the empty cavity that had once held a brain. "You sure? Looks like the Ripper."

Will pulls the file containing the remains of the tree-man closer. "He's already displayed a corpse this way once. The Ripper doesn't do repeats."

"A copy-cat?"

Will shakes his head. "An admirer."

Beverly slumps back in her chair. "Well," she says after a moment. "Not our problem, then."

Will taps his fingers against the table. "You think Crawford knows?"

"I'm sure he does."

"Strange that he didn't tell us about it."

Beverly shrugs. "We aren't actually FBI, Will. Let's focus on the Ripper, yeah? Here." She pushes another folder across the table. Will accepts it somewhat reluctantly. He finds his thoughts slow to return to the case for some time.

Crawford arrives two hours later, Price and Zeller in tow. Will's eyes narrow when a fourth man walks into the room behind them.

"Agent Broslaw," Crawford introduces brusquely. "Broslaw already knows who you two are. Let's get started."

They go over the plan for tomorrow. Will protests the positioning of the FBI teams once again, but is bulldozed over by both Crawford and Beverly insisting that he would need back up close. The rest is pretty standard. Crawford shows an unexpected level of sensitivity as he discusses Will's plan to "ensure Lecter's cooperation." Broslaw sneers throughout.

"Something you want to say, Agent Broslaw?" Beverly snaps at one point.

Broslaw lifts his brows in mock-innocence. Beverly stares at him until the man drops his eyes. She harrumphs and bends back over the file they had been discussing. Crawford grins. A bit of Will's ire toward the older man melts away.

"We'll be ready to move out at five sharp. One shift change at two, patrols check in every half hour. Graham, memorize the emergency codes and keep your phone on or near you at all times." Will nods. Crawford clasps his shoulder. "Not much left."

"Yes." The word sticks in Will's throat.

They go over everything twice more before Crawford is satisfied. "This is it, Graham," the man says in parting. "Keep your head in the game."

"Yes."

Crawford stares at him for a moment before he asks for Beverly to follow him out. Price and Zeller take their time leaving, offering lewd encouragements. Will is blushing and snarling by the time Broslaw walks by. The man looks at Will with open disgust.

Will tips his chin up, meeting hungry green eyes. "See something you like?"

"They could have paid a whore to do what you're doing."

Will's right hand clenches into a fist. Had Beverly not walked in just then, Broslaw would have been picking his teeth off the floor.

Beverly takes one look at them and rounds on Broslaw. "You're really starting to piss me off, buddy."

Broslaw does not as much as look at her. "I am stationed in the lobby, if you need me. M'am. _Sir._ " His eyes remain on Will until he backs out the door, at which point he turns his back to them and marches down the hallway.

Beverly flicks him off. "Asshole." To Will, she says, "Want Jack to put him off the case?"

Will shakes his head. "I don't give a fuck about him. He'll screw himself over sooner or later." Too much ego, too little to back it up. Will presses a hand against his head. "I - I think I need to sleep."

"You should eat something." Will shakes his head. "Will..."

"Later. Just - my head." Will pushes his fingers into the flesh over his temples. Shadows bleed into existence at the edges of his vision.

"Do you want me to get you something from the drugstore?"

"I took an aspirin."

"Good. Let me help you to bed, okay?" Will nods. Beverly wraps a hand around his waist. Together, they stagger to Will's bed. Will tips into the mess of covers with a soft groan.

"You sure you'll be alright?" Beverly asks, pausing at the door. Will waves her away. The shadows are closing in, hands soft over his neck and back.

"Goodnight, Will."

Will closes his eyes.

He's not certain it will be.


	8. Chapter 8

Will sits in Beverly's car and tries his best not to turn a very nice, very expensive dress shirt transparent with nervous sweat.

The window is cracked open. Will lies his head against the cold glass and watches Beverly and Crawford talk some distance away. Beverly's back is to Will. Crawford's expression is drawn tight. People buzz around them - other officers, all in civvies, all terribly alert.

Like Will should be.

Will blinks heavily. The world distorts, people smudging to skin-colored shadows. Their bodies melt into each other - Beverly into Crawford, Zeller into Price, all a mess of flesh. Will scratches at the top of his knees, brushes a hand over his forehead. It comes away wet.

A gust of cold stings Will's skin. The car shakes slightly as Beverly sits behind the wheel.

"Okay there, partner?"

"I thought I was taking a taxi."

"You are." Beverly's grin is a distorted line of white at Will's periphery. "I'm your Uber driver, Mr. Jones. Nice to meet ya."

Will does not attempt to smile back. He is not certain what expression his face will twist itself into. Likely nothing that speaks well of Will's mental state.

Beverly's mirth fizzles out, leaving the air flat between them. "Will..."

"I'm alright," Will lies. Beverly grunts unhappily. "I will be alright. After - after this. I promise."

Beverly bites her lip and says nothing.

Will's head rattles. Will tips his head back, doing his best to glare at Crawford. The man stares back through the thick glass, unimpressed.

"What's gotten into you, Graham! You've been out of it all morning."

Will shrugs. "Pre-date jitters."

Crawford's eyebrows do a little dance above his eyes. "Right." Crawford shifts his attention to Beverly. "We good?"

Beverly nods. She does not look at Crawford or Will, eyes straight ahead. Will glances at her curiously, trying his best to think through the fog in his mind. "Good," Crawford is harrumphing. He barks a short, "Get a hold of yourself, Graham!" and backs away from the car. Will neither answers nor watches him go.

"Hey. You okay?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Beverly clears her throat. It takes her a moment to start the car, then another ten to back out of the parking lot and onto the road. Will studies the hard set of her jaw, the tense line of her shoulders. His mind prickles, overheated.

"You should take the job."

Beverly's throat clicks drily. "What?"

"Crawford offered you a job, didn't he?" The question is rhetorical. Crawford is a smart man. He would not pass someone as bright and good as Beverly up. "Take it."

Beverly chews at her lip for a breath before sighing. "Shit. I was going to tell you, I swear."

"I know," Will tells her.

"I like working with you, Will."

"I know." Will wipes at his face. His hands feel heavy. His whole body is unreasonably tired. "I'm quitting after this, Bev."

Beverly's eyes dart to Will, guilt melting into something else. Something darker. Will is too exhausted to tell what it is. "You are?"

"Yeah. Seems like a good place to stop." Will stares at the car's ceiling. "The right place."

The car rumbles between them for some time. Will drifts in and out, carried along a mechanical tide. Voices whisper in his ears; soft at first then louder, more demanding. One in particular rises above the rest: deep and sullen, it tugs at Will's thoughts with haughty impatience. Will does not want to indulge the voice but knows he will have to soon enough. There is nowhere left to run.

The world shakes violently one last time. Will shudders aware. The car is still beneath his feet, the engine cold and dead. It has not been running for a good while. Will peers at the street beyond the window, then twists his head to look at Beverly.

"We're still a block away."

"Quit now."

Will blinks slowly, trying to focus on the soft cut of Beverly's profile. "What?"

"Quit the case now. Don't you see what it's doing to you? Don't you see-" Beverly inhales sharply. Her eyes are wet when she turns them to Will. Will's heart hurts. "Forget about Lecter. Forget about all of it and let me take you home."

"Crawford won't be happy," Will says quietly. Beverly's hands spasm around the wheel.

"I don't care."

"You will lose the job."

"I don't _care_ , Will!"

Will smiles.

"Thank you." He lies his head back against the headrest and thinks that he will always remember this moment. Whatever happens, however much he misses Beverly, he will have this one memory of her to fall on.

"You won't do it," Beverly murmurs. Will shakes his head.

"I have to see this through. Sorry," Will tags on.

"I hope you don't turn out to be."

The car comes to life. Will hums in quiet agreement and watches the last of the distance between him and Hannibal melt away.

 

* * *

 

Beverly drops Will off at the end of Hannibal's rather impressive driveway. Will pays her, as he would a proper cabbie. They exchange scripted goodbyes in case there are any monitoring devices on the property. Beverly drives away. Will stares after her until the car curves around a corner and disappears. He knows she is on her way to join the patrols stationed further down the street.

Will is still alone.

Will pulls his shoulders back and sets forward. He keeps his eyes on the house - a white, cold statue wrapped in velvet gloom. Its windows glow with fire. Fevered eyes.

Hannibal greets Will with a warm smile and a pleased, "Good evening, Will." The man's enthusiasm is so terribly honest. Will forgets his carefully-prepared speech and is forced to fall back on his usual manner of interaction: helpless blundering.

"Yes. You too." Will blushes and fumbles with the bottle of wine he clutches. "Here."

Hannibal accepts the proffered bottle graciously. "Thank you, Will. This will go well with tonight's menu." The door swings open wider, like the jaws of some wooden monster. "Please, come in."

Will does not hesitate. He is not afraid of being eaten.

The large, warm hands that help Will shed his coat have nervous sweat bud over the bow of Will's lips. A quiet inhale has Will tipping his head to one side to stare incredulously at his host. Will arches an eyebrow. Hannibal smiles and takes a single step back.

"This way, please."

Will half-expects the hand that fits over the curve at the low of his back. The spike of pleasure Hannibal's confident handling inspires is less appreciated. Will seeks clarity by studying the pictures framed along the hallway's walls. Cities, mostly European. Several landscapes. Black and white is at times interspersed with papers stained in solid color - vivid sunrises and soft, dark evenings. Will is certain the worlds wrought in hues had not been created by Hannibal's hand.

A small, oval portrait catches Will's eye. It is tucked at the corner of two grander paintings - a yellowed scrap of paper marked thinly by a dull pencil. Will recognizes the girl that smiles within it. His stomach clenches painfully, voice rasping an unnecessary question. "Who is this?"

Hannibal steps around Will's hunched body. His shoulder presses against Will's, hard muscle concealed beneath stiff wool. "My sister, Mischa. She died very young."

Will makes an effort to look at Hannibal. He finds the man looking back at him and fights the scared, instinctual need to duck his head. "I am sorry."

"It was a long time ago," Hannibal says. Will is uncertain whether the words are meant as a statement or a question. He answers nonetheless.

"Time does not heal everything."

"On the contrary. Provided that the root cause is removed, pain and joy are easily erased by time, no matter their initial magnitude. It is but a manner of letting go."

Will's heart beats in his mouth as he speaks. "I prefer to keep what's mine."

"Even the pain?"

"Especially the pain. I wouldn't be who I am without it."

Hannibal's eyes shine with approval.

The dining room is cast in rich blacks and browns - earthy colors that comfort and cradle and bury. Will allows Hannibal to pull his chair out for him. He manages to keep a certain semblance of calm by focusing on the spread of dishes before him rather than Hannibal's attention. It is not too difficult.

"This is too much."

Hannibal chuckles. Will watches his hands twist about the wine bottle's neck. The cork uncaps with a dull _pop_. "On the contrary. I practiced utmost restraint in tonight's presentation, as not to overwhelm."

The table is a black spill of lacquered wood. Plates bearing jewel-bright offerings of food stud its surface, the white china like piles of bone rising from a soot-filled river. At the table's center, a block of flesh-colored marble bleeds rose petals and gushes coils of thorns. The flowers' blooms droop over the vase's edges, clustered close and heavy.

"Thank you," Will says dryly.

Hannibal's smile widens. He walks to stand behind Will, then bends over Will's shoulder to pour wine into his glass. His chest presses briefly against Will, hard muscle to bone. The warmth of him is scalding.

"I will not hold back next time."

Will swallows. "You shouldn't." The fortifying gulp of wine he takes fans the fire in his mind.

The meal is lovely. Will does not allow himself to hesitate over the meat. Hannibal introduces it as filet mignon. It is perfectly cooked, complimented by sharp herbs and soft spices, and tastes of beef. Will considers the meat's other possible source as he bathes his last mouthful of filet with wine. He wishes the thought bothered him more.

There is a lull in the easy conversation Hannibal spins between them. Hannibal excuses himself to the kitchen to retrieve their dessert from the fridge. Will takes the opportunity to relax his face from the forced smile it had born all night. He swipes at his mouth, lips shiny with wine and food. His cheeks hurt.

"I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Will."

Will looks up from the table and his own dark reflection. Hannibal stands at the dining room's entrance, balancing dainty plates bearing fragile cakes made of cream and fruit. It seems like but a moment has passed since the man had left.

Will shakes his head hurriedly. "You are not. I am enjoying myself." Hannibal's expression turns disbelieving. Will smiles thinly. "No, really. This - this is not your fault."

"I am not saying that it is." Hannibal strides forward. He sets one of the plates before Will. "Nonetheless, I do not like to see you distressed."

Will flushes. Unable to meet Hannibal's eyes, he concentrates on the perfect red pearls studding his desert. "Unusual choice of topping."

"Sugar-based confectionary benefit from a hint of bitterness." Hannibal has taken his own seat. He takes a sip of his wine. Will traces the motion of Hannibal's throat as the man swallows. He averts his gaze as soon as Hannibal sets the glass down. "Have you ever had pomegranate before, Will?"

Will tries to remember. He slowly shakes his head. "I guess I haven't."

Hannibal's smile lights his eyes. "I hope you find it to your liking."

Will separates three ruby seeds from their bed of cream with his spoon. He sucks at them to get them clean of sugar before biting into their soft bodies. The burst of bitter-sweetness is like a pop of color in a gray world.

"Very good," Will says. Hannibal smiles back, pleased.

They finish their dessert in the dining room, bites of cream and fruit complimented by easy conversation. Hannibal shares light stories of past patients. He touches upon a particularly neurotic man who Will suspects to be Franklyn Froideveaux. Will's smiles grow less perfunctory as the evening progresses. Hannibal refills their glasses and moves them to a warmly-lit sitting room at some point. Will follows after him, barely cognizant of the change of scenery. The heat of Hannibal beside him and the low rumble of Hannibal's voice hold the entirety of his attention.

Will's awareness of the sofa he and Hannibal share comes at the heels of the realization that all he has to do to kiss Hannibal is lean slightly to the right and tip his head. The knowledge that Hannibal will let him - the fact that the older man's eyes are on Will's lips at this very moment - have Will's insides burning.

Will licks his lips. Hannibal's mouth parts in a soft exhale.

"Can I-"

"Yes."

Will lets out a startled chuckle. "You don't know what I am going to ask."

"It does not matter. You can."

Will exhales in a stutter of air. He leans closer to Hannibal, almost unconsciously. Hannibal's eyes are on him. Always, always on him.

"You are a dangerous man, Doctor Lecter," Will breathes.

If Hannibal has a response, it is lost in Will's mouth.

They kiss deeply. There is no lead in, no shy dance of lips. Hannibal opens his mouth wide and takes Will's, has Will take his until both lead and follow. Will licks at Hannibal, sucks at his tongue, threads his hands through blonde silk. There are fingers crushing his curls to his nape, a large hand gripping his hip. Will moans and presses closer. He has straddled Hannibal's lap, or perhaps Hannibal had pulled him there. Will breaks away and bumps his forehead to Hannibal's, eyes on the lurid press of their hips. Will's slacks strain in the front. Hannibal's groin presses between the spread of his legs, cock full and hard.

"Oh, God. God."

Hannibal chuckles and nips at Will's throat. The sting of his teeth has Will grinding into the man's lap with a high-pitched whine.

"Should I give you this, Will?"

Will tips his head back with a moan. The hand in his hair slides down to curve loosely around his neck. Will wants it tighter. He kisses Hannibal, bites at his lips and relishes the low growl he receives. Will does it again before pulling back, fevered gaze climbing Hannibal's face. "I want-"

Hannibal's eyes are a milky, dead white.

Will rears back violently. Hannibal barely manages to catch him before he topples over the man's legs. Will shakes his head and pushes at Hannibal's broad chest, hands shaking. "No," he repeats. "No, no, no-"

"It is alright, Will. You are safe. Will, you are safe."

Will chokes on a terrible giggle. The sofa is soft but unyielding against his back. Hannibal looms above him, the sitting room's gray ceiling framing his concerned expression. His eyes are as they always have been - molten burgundy. They seem black in the poor light.

"I'm fine," Will stutters, wincing almost immediately. "My head."

Hannibal's expression smoothes. "Just a moment." He disappears before Will can gather the breath to beg him stay.

Hannibal returns a short while later. He helps Will sit up and sets a pill in Will's hand. "Aspirin." Will pops it in his mouth. Hannibal wraps his hands over Will's and helps him support the tall glass of water as the man washes the pill down.

"Thank you," Will offers quietly. This is not how tonight was supposed to go. He should have been in Hannibal's bed by now, terrified out of his mind and gritting his teeth as he took whatever the man wanted to give him. Instead, he had become a burden - a sweaty, unattractive one at that. "I'm sorry."

"Please do not apologize, Will. I should have been more careful. Especially after our last meeting." Will winces; Hannibal runs a hand down his side, the gesture soothing rather than sexual. Will tries not to push against the large hand. "Let me take you to bed."

Will glances up. The words, _You still want to?_ roll in his mouth, drowning beneath a wave of panic.

"To a guest room," Hannibal adds smoothly. The hand stroking up and down Will's flank does not pause. "I do not wish to leave you on your own tonight, Will."

Will considers pressing for further intimacy. The plan had been to draw closer to Hannibal and the secrets the man kept tucked away in his gorgeous brain. Pillow talk can hardly be accomplished when the couple in question is not sharing a bed.

Will's head throbs urgently. The thought of having Hannibal while Will is half out of his mind is not a pleasant one. If they are to sleep together, Will would at least like to-

"Thank you," Will rasps, severing a rather dangerous line of thought. Hannibal's face softens with relief as he helps Will from the couch and up the stairs to the second floor. Will ignores the warmth in his chest and focuses on putting one foot in front the other. Soon enough, he is being lowered to the edge of a wide bed. Will grips the covers, doing his best to remain sitting up.

"You are welcome to borrow sleepwear," Hannibal offers.

Will blinks up at the man. He manages a small smirk.

"I prefer to sleep naked."

Hannibal's eyes flash. "My self control does have limits, Will."

Will's smirk melts into a satisfied smile. "Goodnight, Doctor Lecter."

"Goodnight."

Hannibal hesitates briefly, then bends and presses a kiss to Will's forehead before exiting the room. Will stares at the closed door for some time.

 

* * *

 

It is 1:55 am. Will has been drifting in and out of smog-heavy dreams for the past three hours. He had set his phone's alarm for two, just in case sleep took him under.

Will thumbs the alarm off and rises. His body protests, shaking violently as it grows accustomed to the sudden change of blanket-warmth to morning cold. Will grits his teeth and bears through it. Just a handful of hours. That's all he has left of this, and then.

And then.

The bedroom door makes no sound as it opens. Will threads carefully down the dark hallway. He pauses in front of Hannibal's closed door, listening for movement or noise that would betray the man as awake. There is nothing. Will descends the stairs.

The basement's entrance is tucked at the very back of the house. Hours spent pouring over blueprints means that Will knows exactly where to find it. He does not expect to find it unlocked, but Will is not about to question a stroke of good luck.

The cement stairs leading into the basement are steep. Will uses his cell's flashlight to navigate them, unwilling to turn on the main lights. He feels too exposed already. Too small and unimportant in the empty underbelly of Hannibal's home.

And it _is_ empty.

Will turns in a slow circle. The pale light goes with him, illuminating naked floors and bare shelves. A large fridge takes most of one corner. Its insides are as hollow as the rest of the room. Will's hands shake as he withdraws them from squeaky-clean rafts. He grips his phone hard. The flashlight goes off.

Fluorescence blossoms above him, filling the basement with light.

Will whirls around. He listens to the heavy steps that descend the staircase, heart beating loud enough to match. Hannibal pauses at the foot of the stairs. They look at each other, Hannibal calm, Will trying not to rattle apart. He knows.

"Are you lost, Will?"

Will shakes his head. The room swims before his eyes, turning blood-red before melting back to smooth gray. "You shouldn't have bothered. I see it anyway."

He _knows._

Hannibal sets forward. Will does the same, feeling as if he is walking in a dream. Perhaps he is. They meet at the center of the room. The foot of cold cement that separates them is both too wide and nonexistent. Will's hand spasms around the phone. The message is typed already, ready to send. Help will come within minutes.

"I know who you are," Will says.

Hannibal takes another step forward. Will takes two. "Do you know who _you_ are?" Hannibal asks.

A sharp clack. Will's phone slips through his fingers. Its bottom-right edge shatters, screen webbing with thin fractures. Will presses his hands to Hannibal's chest. "You have to go."

"I am not going to leave you, Will."

Will twists the soft material of Hannibal's robe between his fingers. He stares at the rumpled cloth, the sole point of connection between them. "You don't understand. They're here. They know, too. You have to run, Hannibal."

A strong hand grips Will's chin. Will keeps his eyes lowered even as his head is urged up. His lips move over unspoken pleas. "Will," Hannibal beckons and Will, helpless, follows the voice to the man's face. Black veins throb beneath his skin, spilling ink to stain all. Will sucks in a helpless breath and watches with horror as soft hair parts around the sprout of thick, dark antlers. A lipless mouth opens. The creature's words are lost beneath the rush of blood in Will's head, the thunder of footsteps, the mad frenzy of voices.

"Step away from him and put your hands in the air!"

Will turns his head sluggishly. People surround them on all sides, a dozen guns pointing their muzzles at the center of the room. "It's alright," he tries to say. His tongue feels too large for his mouth.

"Will. Step away from Doctor Lecter. Please, Will."

Beverly. Will tries to focus on her. Her cheeks are wet, mascara smudged and gun trembling in her hands. Will lets out a sad whine and moves away from Hannibal, drops his hands from their tight grip around the older man's neck. A weight barrels into his back almost immediately. The cement floor is hard and cold. The pain of impact is terrible, spreading dull-hot all along his front. Will snarls and tries to twist away from the man pinning him to the ground. He only succeeds in pulling at his trapped hands. Something metal bites over his wrists. Will's lungs compress, short on air.

"Will Graham, you are under arrest for the murder of Agent Samuel Broslaw, Tobias Budge..." Crawford's voice drones on and on, going down a list of names Will knows by heart. Will shakes his head. No. Wrong. All wrong.

"Don't - You're hurting him!" Beverly sobs. Will wants to comfort her, wants to scream. She had led them to him, hadn't she? She had let them do this to him. The air in the room seems to fizzle. Will's mouth is coated in metal dust.

"What's happening to him?" Crawford demands. Beverly is repeating Will's name, words wet. They fill Will's ears with tears. All but one voice drown, washed away in salt and blood.

"Step away from him, please. He is having a seizure."

The weight does not lift. Will feels his bones bend and break, his limbs separate from his body. His torso is carved hollow, his insides labeled and stored. To be consumed. Will giggles into the mess of spit and blood he has made on the floor. He has bitten his tongue.

"I asked you to step away-"

The room turns from gray to white then tips over into red.

Will knows no more.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Will loses three days. He is not unconscious for their entirety, but neither is he present in any way that counts. Hands push him along. Sometimes they are cruel; mostly, their touch is hard and uncaring. Bright lights, sotto voices, needles in his veins. Will has no power to resist and no mind left to think he ought to.

It is sometime after midnight on the third day when the world returns to Will - or rather, Will returns to the world. He is somewhat dismayed to find it has turned gray in his absence. Fond of iron bars in the stead of wood and glass, as well.

Will blinks at the cracked cement ceiling over a bed as hard as a morgue table for four full minutes before he realizes that he is, in fact, in prison.

The rest of it rushes in like a tsunami. Dinners and dates and an empty fridge. Hannibal's pleased smile.

 _Fuck_ , Will thinks in bewildered rage _, that slick son of a bitch got me good._

Will pushes up slowly. His arms tremble. His legs are no better but Will forces them to cooperate. He grips the cold metal bars and calls for a guard. His voice breaks through the first time, tongue dry enough to sand wood. Will swallows as much saliva as the desert in his mouth can produce and tries again.

A door opens with a clatter at the end of a dark hallway. Two guards appear in short order. They halt to a stop a good meter away from the cell. Their hands are tense at their sides, their eyes wary. Neither speaks.

"Where am I?" Will asks. The words are low and gravely and _stupid_ but fuck, he means them.

"Baltimore State Hospital."

Will shudders. The guards grab for the tasers strapped to their belts. Laughter bubbles up Will's throat. "How long?"

The men hesitate. "Three days," one of them says at length. "The med staff will be by in the morning," his partner adds curtly. The hate in his gaze is familiar to Will; he has waited for its kind his whole life, avoided people's eyes for fear of seeing it in them. Finding it here feels strangely liberating.

"Thank you," Will says. "May I have some water?"

They give him a plastic bottle with the cap popped off. Will drinks the whole thing. He places the empty bottle on the floor just outside of the bars and takes several steps back. One of the guards retrieves it while the other keeps watch. Will should find their caution ridiculous. He does find it ridiculous, but he also knows that to these men he is a killer and a cannibal. They watch him and see the corpses the Chesapeake Ripper had left, think of blood and torn limbs. They fear.

The stink of cornered prey has Will baring his teeth.

The guards leave. Will waits until the door clangs behind them before he sits at the edge of the cot, legs shaky. The cell is barren and dark. There is a toilet in one corner, a cramped sink beside it. Will stares at the sink and waits for something terrible to happen. For it to fill with blood, for the shadows beyond the iron bars to solidify and call his name. For Abigail Hobbs to sit next to him and smile with dead blue eyes.

There is nothing. No monsters, no apparitions, no fire in his skull. Will should be relieved.

The darkness echoes around him, cold and lonely.

 

* * *

 

The grate of metal on metal wakes Will some hours later. He has fallen asleep sitting up, his back to the cold wall. There is a terrible crick in his neck and his spine feels frozen. The sudden pressure of hands on him is unexpected and unwarranted. Will's sleepy grunt is answered by the jab of a needle and handcuffs snapping over his wrist, snagging at skin.

Will is suddenly quite awake and feeling terribly understanding of Hannibal Lecter's aversion to rudeness.

The guards drag Will down the hallway and into a room with a table and two chairs. One is already occupied. Will is deposited into the other like so much luggage. His jaw jars, teeth clacking together.

"Good morning, Mr. Graham," the man sitting across from Will says. "I am Doctor Frederick Chilton." Chilton's smile is polite. Everything else about him exudes satisfaction so great Will's own lips tug up in response.

"What did you give me?"

"Excuse me?"

"The drugs," Will grinds out. "Just now. What was in the injection?"

"Oh. That was your daily dosage of antivirals."

"My what?"

"You were diagnosed with severe encephalitis upon admission. I am happy to report you are recovering well." Chilton hurries through the bones of what had been done to Will, obviously not very interested in discussing his patient's health. Will gathers he had been to several doctors and had an MRI scan done at some point. He does not remember and is glad of it.

"Now, Mr. Graham," Chilton is saying, his smile firmly back, "You must understand that I wish to help you. You are not the monster they have made you out to be. You are misunderstood. Let me understand you, Mr. Graham." Chilton leans forward, expression earnest. "Let me _help_ _you_."

Will stares at the man in stupefied silence for a long moment.

"I want Doctor Lecter."

Chilton's smile falters. "What?"

"Hannibal Lecter. Therapist, expensive suits, posh accent." Chilton continues to blink in incomprehension. Will raises his bound hands and rattles the handcuffs. "He got me into these?"

The sound seems to jump-start Chilton's brain. The man scowls. "I know who Hannibal Lecter is. I fail to see what he has to do with our conversation."

Will contains a smirk. Jealousy is such a nice color on the pompous little doctor. "Doesn't matter if you see it. I do."

"Dr. Lecter is not a member of this hospital-"

"I will not talk to anyone else," Will interrupts. "My poor, misunderstood brain will remain a mystery until it's fried at the electric chair."

Chilton huffs.

Will leans back and raises an eyebrow.

"I will think about it," Chilton growls after several minutes of rather uncomfortable eye contact. Will nods and stands. The guards rush to flank him. "I have more questions-" Chilton begins, thin and demanding.

"Then you better get Dr. Lecter in here."

Chilton sputters.

The pleasure of autonomy is gone by the time Will is back in his cell. There is very little Will has left to bargain with - nothing at all that will save him from the chair. The thought that his life depends on his usefulness to men like Chilton has Will's hands clenching, his mind howling in anger.

"We'll have a nice little chat, Dr. Lecter," Will growls at the ceiling.

He pretends the words are a threat rather than the voicing of hope.

 

* * *

 

"You've got a visitor."

Will pauses his mindless study of the wall to look at the guard standing at stiff attention outside his cell. It is morning again, a day after his little chat with Doctor Frederick Chilton. Too early for Chilton to have swallowed his enormous ego and brought Hannibal in.

Will swings his legs off the cot and stands. "Who is it?"

"A woman." Will nods and obediently lifts his hands to be cuffed. He had been consciously avoiding thoughts of Beverly and Alana. Beverly's betrayal still weighs him; the possibility of Alana being in on it leaves Will feeling hollow. Will has nothing to offer that could persuade them of his innocence. Nothing but his own word - a currency that is currently without any worth.

As it turns out, Will need not had worried. The woman waiting for him in the room of yesterday is neither Alana nor Beverly. She is, however, familiar.

Will sits across the fox-like redhead whose picture he had seen a life ago and frowns.

"Hello, Mr. Graham. Will. May I call you Will?" The woman smiles gently. "My name is Freddie Lounds. I am here on behalf of a non-profit organization established to protect the rights of inmates - society's most vulnerable, one may argue-"

"Stop," Will grunts.

"Pardon?"

"With the lies. Stop. I know who you are."

The woman's expression grows sharp and gleeful. "I am flattered. Did you enjoy my articles? The one on the Shrike was pretty popular. It has a nice picture of you, too. All bloody. Very handsome," she simpers.

 Will's ears are ringing. "You wrote about the Hobbs case?"

"Why, yes. Ran an ad for your agency, too." Will remembers a sudden spike of business some months ago. Beverly had been ecstatic about it - had said something about an investment paying off. "I thought we had something special," Lounds is pouting.

"What happened?"

Lounds grins. "Uh-uh. Nothing is for free. I'll trade you. Question for a question."

"I only have the one," Will says.

"So do I." Lounds places a small black bag on the table. "Shoot."

Will thinks over his words carefully. Freddie Lounds lies through her teeth with admirable nonchalance. Will is not going to give her any leeway to cheat him with her answer.

"Jack Crawford asked you to take everything to do with me down from your site." This is not Will's question; Lounds nods anyway. "How long ago was that?"

"Six, seven months?" Lounds shrugs. "A good while."

Will bows his head. So it had been about him from the start.

"Ask your question."

"Are you the Chesapeake Ripper?" Lounds says without preamble or hesitation.

Will raises his eyes to shrewd brown. "No."

Lounds looks disappointed, but not surprised. "Alright," she says and gathers her handbag. Will watches her, nonplussed.

"That's it? You believe me?"

"I have studied you, Mr. Graham. The Chesapeake Ripper doesn't quite fit your brand of crazy." She buttons her coat and sets for the door. "Something else might, mind you. I will be back."

"No need," Will says.

Freddie Lounds flashes him a smile and disappears, tight red curls glinting like they've been dipped in blood.

 

* * *

 

Alana is next.

Another two days pass. Will spends them thinking about Lounds and Hannibal, sometimes Beverly. He has nothing in mind for Alana Bloom.

"How are my dogs?" Will asks once he is seated across the now familiar metal table.

Alana's surprise tightens her mouth for a flicker of a moment before it is smoothed behind the persona of the calm therapist. "They are doing fine." A beat. "They miss you."

"I miss them, too." Will rubs at his face. The cuffs catch at his lips. He lets his hands drop. "Do you believe I am guilty, Alana?"

Alana's careful, "Should I, Will?" feels like a punch to the throat.

Will chokes on a broken snort. He wants to hide, but there is nowhere to go and he is suddenly angry, so terribly angry that he has been put on display like this. Put in a cage for people to poke and gape at - a rare, dangerous beast. _Get your fill now, folks! It is off to the gallows for him_.

Will stands. "Don't come back."

"Will-"

" _Please_."

Alana falls silent. Will does not look at her as he is escorted out of the room. He wants to remember Alana Bloom as his friend.

Back in his cell, Will wonders if there is any point to fighting for a life that no longer exists.

 

* * *

 

Beverly and Crawford visit together. Will ends up being strangely glad for it; either one would have been too much to take on their own.

"We have everything we need to put you away for good, Graham," Crawford lies. He taps his fingers over files Will knows word for word, claims overlaps between time lapses on Will's part and Ripper murders. "Confess. Cooperate with the investigation, and you won't get the chair."

Will calmly waits for the man to finish spitting in his general direction. "I trust Chilton told you my terms."

Crawford bristles. "You aren't in a position to be making demands."

Will crosses his arms. Crawford glares.

"I won't have you influencing my witness, Graham."

"You didn't have any problem with me fucking him."

Crawford's lips press into a thin line. Veins pop along his temples. Will smiles back serenely and ignores Beverly's quiet, " _Will_."

Crawford exhales sharply. He opens the laptop sitting at his elbow, types and clicks for several moments. Beverly tries to get Will's attention but Will keeps his eyes on Crawford. When the older man spins the laptop around, Will leans closer to see the screen.

A video is playing, sound on mute. Will recognizes the lobby of the Four Seasons hotel. The time stamp in the bottom right corner dates the feed to a week ago. Three-fifteen in the morning before Will's visit to Hannibal's house.

"What is this?"

"Keep watching," Crawford grunts.

There are few people up and about, mostly cleaning staff, the occasional drunk patron. At three thirty-seven, Will sees himself walk out of the elevator. He is wearing a pair of black slacks and one of the thin, gray shirts he sleeps in. Will on the screen nods at the man manning the front desk and exits the lobby. The video ends.

"I don't-," Will leans away and squeezes his eyes shut. Something beats at his mind. "I don't remember this."

Crawford snorts. "You looked pretty lucid to me."

Will shakes his head. He had. He had, so why can't he- "Why did you show me this?"

"Because I need you to remember." Crawford leans closer; Will staggers back until his spine presses to the chair. "I need the body, Graham. He deserves a proper burial."

Will swallows. "Who?" he asks.

"Don't fucking-" Beverly says something low and sharp; Crawford exhales harshly. "Agent Broslaw was stationed in front of the hotel that night. His partner reported him missing ten minutes after you walked out the lobby."

Will shrugs, nonchalant. He is shaking inside. "You are making leaps with zero evidence."

"We know what Broslaw said to you, Will," Beverly says quietly. Will finally looks at her. "When - that day. And later, when we were getting ready for the mission. You had a motive."

"I wouldn't kill someone over a slur!"

" _You_ wouldn't."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You used to..." Beverly takes a breath. "There were times you didn't act like yourself."

"My brain was on fire."

Beverly nods, but her eyes are uncertain. "Yes. You sleepwalked. You lost time. Sometimes," she says, slow and careful, "you would go away. For a while. Do you remember?"

Will says nothing. He does not; the thing in his head rattles invisible bars.

"I started keeping track, and noticed a - a pattern."

"Every time a new Ripper body was reported," Crawford butts in. "Want to try telling us it was a coincidence?"

Will ignores him. "So you contacted the FBI," he says to Beverly.

Beverly nods. "Eventually. I had to be sure."

"Are you?"

Beverly looks at Will. She bites her lip. "I was."

Crawford's expression darkens further. "We're done here. For now," he adds, vaguely threatening.

Will says nothing. His eyes are on Beverly.

 _Do you have all of your pieces?_ she mouths.

"I am working on it," he tells her.

"What?" Crawford demands.

Will rubs at the bridge of his nose. They had taken his glasses; he does not need them for pressure to build there, drops of it pooling like sweat from his mind. "Bring Lecter," he says.

Crawford harrumphs and stomps away. Beverly lingers a moment longer.

"Will..."

"Lecter," Will says. "Please."

Beverly studies him, black eyes glinting. She nods once and turns away.

"We'll catch him, Will." 

Will does not react.

He no longer cares about catching anyone at all.

 

* * *

 

The day Hannibal Lecter finally comes to Will, the world is drowning.

It is raining so hard Will hears it through the walls. Wind claws at the building, thunder shakes the earth. Will sits on his cot and stares at the wall. _Tick-tock_ , goes his mind, _tick-tock_.

The door at the end of the hallway opens. Chilton's voice echoes against the cement. It is answered by another of deeper, quieter timbre.

Will stands and turns to face the bars. Four bodies weep shadows in the brightly-lit space beyond the cell. Two guards, Chilton. Hannibal.

Will tips his chin up and meets dark, amused eyes. A crooked smile twists Will's lips. _Look at you - so fucking smug._ Will's hands clench at his sides. Hannibal's eyes flicker to them briefly before returning to Will's. His mouth curls up at the edges.

"-move this somewhere more comfortable?" Chilton is saying. Impatience rolls off him, overlain by annoyance.

"Do you know who you are, Will?" Hannibal asks. Déjà vu has Will blinking the afterimage of a dark basement away.

"I know who I am not," Will bites out. Hannibal nods.

"That is a start." He steps closer to the bars. One of the guards immediately blocks his path.

"Please remain where you are, sir."

Hannibal shifts his attention to the uniformed man. "I will be just a moment."

The man shakes his head. "It's for your own safety. He can reach through the bars."

"Gentlemen, if we can move this along," Chilton tries again. Hannibal is still reasoning with the guard. The guard's partner adds his own two cents and suddenly everyone is talking at once.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Will turns to face the cell and presses his body against the bars, hands crossed at his lower back. "Just fucking handcuff me and let him say his bit."

There is a moment of silence, then footsteps. Metal twists over Wills wrists. Will rolls his eyes and turns back around, hands secured. The guard who had cuffed him moves back. Hannibal steps into his place almost immediately.

"Enjoy seeing me like this?" Will growls in the scant space between them.

Hannibal takes another step forward. "Yes." They are standing toe to toe now. Will swallows. Hannibal bends his head. "Your ear, Will."

"Hungry?" Will quips under his breath. A puff of amusement warms his cheek. Will grunts and turns his head. Hannibal's next words slide directly into him, just for the two of them.

"I watched you murder that man. You were magnificent, Will."

Will staggers back. His eyes are wide and unseeing. His mind has gone silent and still.

"Do you remember?" Hannibal asks.

Will inclines his head.

Hannibal's teeth glint like knives.

Will closes his eyes. Voices rise and fall beyond the barrier of flesh and darkness; Hannibal, excusing himself to an appointment. Chilton, incredulous and upset and demanding. "I will be back, Will," Hannibal says in parting. Will nods without opening his eyes. He cannot watch him leave.

"What did he say to you?" Chilton raps at the bars as soon as Hannibal is out of range. "What did he _say_?"

Will licks his lips. "I think you better leave the cuffs on."

Chilton stomps away.

Will presses his forehead to his knees. A door opens in his mind. Will takes a shuddering breath and steps through it, eyes wide open.


	10. Chapter 10

Will does not speak for two weeks.

Chilton pronounces him catatonic three days in, because Chilton is an idiot who deserves to have his degree revoked. Will does not pay him any mind. He has none to spare, no time at all to squander on the men of the likes of Doctor Frederick Chilton.

Lack of response does not stop Chilton from delivering increasingly dramatic soliloquies. His nasal, drawling voice resembles the satisfied buzzing of a fly circling what it believes to be a dying beast. Will finds himself diagnosed with a number of psychotic disorders of which he is exhibiting no symptoms. Had Chilton been a smarter man Will would have suspected him of goading his patient into defensive honesty. As it is, Will mostly feels sorry for the gaggle of students dogging his steps every other visit. Paying thousands of dollars to listen to some pompous ass masturbate orally for two hours hardly seems like a good deal.

Crawford tries to persuade Will to speak a week into Will's self-imposed isolation. _Persuade_ being a keyword for threaten, intimidate, and otherwise rage despondently outside the cell. Will smiles vacantly and lets the state-appointed lawyer deal with the agent. Crawford leaves eventually. He comes back the next day, two days after that. Always pushing, always angry. Will sits with his back to the bars and wades through a river made of blood, peaceful. He reels in pieces of himself from the current - jagged glass that cuts his palms and hurts the best way. Will sifts through them with careful, bloody fingers. His reflection fills bit by bit.

Will had never lost time. Not a single second.

It is all here. It is all in his head, buried beneath pain and disease and self-hatred. Will has everything in order by the end of the eighth day and when he does, when he finally sees himself in his mind's eye, he laughs and laughs and laughs.

"I will be ready in a few days," Will tells the guards with their guns aimed at his chest. He closes his eyes and lies back down on his cot. The easy part is over.

Now comes the real fun.

A smile splits Will's face. Lines cross and tangle behind his lids - red strands connecting people and possibilities. When the wolves circle Will this time, he will be ready to bite back.

 

* * *

 

They lead him down a different hallway. It curves through the belly of the institution, long and dark and cramped. Guards crowd Will with their bodies. They are all taller than him, much more muscled, armed. Will entertains himself by cataloguing soft spots where teeth and fingernails could sink and carve a path to freedom. He has tucked away the knowledge of over a dozen by the time they exit the building. A barren garden stretches before them. The ground is flat, he grass artificial. The plot is fenced by the Institute on all four sides. Will tips his head up. At least the sky is real.

"Dr. Chilton."

"Agent Crawford."

The two men shake hands some steps away and well out of Will's line of sight. Will watches clouds smother blue to gray.

"Graham."

The guard blocking Will's view of the garden moves aside. Crawford's unimpressed expression is hardly a prize.

"Is he here?" Will croaks. Crawford glares for long moments. After a while, Will looks back to the sky.

"Yes," Crawford snaps finally. "You will talk with him, Graham. The trial's starting in a week, no more weaseling around. This is your last chance to buy a deal."

"Who's the devil in this scenario?" Will asks the clouds. Crawford lets out a disgusted grunt.

They march him down a path made of broken stones. It ends at the feet of a solid picnic table. Will is forced down on one side. A metal chain is threaded through the cuffs and clasped to a thick hook at the center of the table. Will tests the give reflexively. The guard who had secured him glares. Will lets his hands drop to the table, palms down. The guard takes a single step back and remains at attention.

"Privacy is imperative."

"I'm not leaving him alone with you."

Hannibal Lecter looks at Jack Crawford. Crawford looks at Lecter. Will watches them both and sees more fractures than solid ground. A little work will have their unholy union crumbling to ash.

"Fine!" Crawford does not throw up his hands, does not slump. He goes stiffer with his anger. Lecter remains quietly composed in his seat across from Will. "I expect an _exact_ report, Dr. Lecter."

"You shall have it."

Crawford waves the guards away. They do not go far enough to be terribly sloppy - there is another picnic table some distance away, coffee cups and Chilton and what look like biscuits - but it is enough.

Hannibal looks at Will. Will has not looked at anyone and anything else since he sat down. Seconds stretch into minutes. They are breathing each other's heartbeats, entirely in sync.

"Are they listening?" Will asks.

Hannibal reaches into his coat. Black today, the suit beneath it burgundy so dark it nearly matches. He places a rectangular device on the table and presses a button on its side.

"Audio jammer." Hannibal inclines his head. Will smiles crookedly. "What is a marriage without trust?"

Hannibal's expression is unpleasantly bland. "I will advise you to face away from Agent Crawford, if you would like to maintain your privacy."

Will bares his teeth, laying his irritation out for Hannibal to see. He shifts in his seat so his mouth and most of his face are not visible to Crawford and whoever he's got reading lips for him. "Thank you."

Hannibal's, "You are welcome, Will," comes out a beat delayed. By the time the doctor says, low and calm, "Would you like to unburden yourself?" his composure is diamond-perfect once again.

"How about we play it tit for tat?"

Hannibal studies Will for a quiet moment. His forearms lie on the table, bracketing a fat yellow folder. His fingers twitch once. "I do not believe you understand your situation."

Will grins. "Oh, I do. You've got a checklist, I bet - not from Crawford. Crawford's easy. Heroes always are. You are much more exacting." Will's smile slips off his lips but stays in his eyes, cold and sharp. "Don't worry, Doctor, you'll get what you came for. My mind, turned inside-out for your perusal."

Hannibal's face does not change. His eyes burn.

Will braces his weight forward, elbows digging into the table.  "Let's start easy, shall we? The case first. I was the suspect from the start, naturally. The plan was to crack me - push me with demands on my time and mind and body until something gave. The expectation was a dissociative disorder, possibly the discovery of a secondary personality with psychopathic tendencies. It's why they brought you on board instead of another agent. To diagnose me. To _handle_ me, so I don't break until it's most convenient. Am I getting it right?"

Hannibal's eyes glitter. "In spirit, if not in wording."

Will barks out a laugh. "Right. I'm sure it was all very refined and logical on paper. And you, you just couldn't resist, could you? You'd already figured me out. Friendly Freddy Lounds and her candid shots took care of that. Crawford coming to you was an opportunity, not a revelation." Hannibal presses his lips together briefly. Will waves a hand; the chain jingles. "Go ahead. Your turn."

Hannibal splays a hand over the folder. He opens it, spills its guts and rearranges them - glossy pictures, most made of reds and blacks and skin. Will gives them a cursory once-over. His eyes catch on three or four.

Will arches an eyebrow when Hannibal does not speak. "Well?"

"These are gifts." Will nods. "Who were they meant for, Will?"

Will shakes his head. "Ask me better."

Hannibal is silent for a minute, two, three. His body is relaxed. His eyes are dark. Will holds them across a tableau of murder and waits. He has no patience for the world but Hannibal is not the world. For him, Will can wait until his flesh falls to dust.

Hannibal licks his lips. Will unconsciously mimics him.

"Were they for me, Will?"

Will exhales. "They all deserved what they got. But this," Will taps on a picture of a body twisted so the head devoured its feet in a perfect circle, broken bones protruding from its back and legs like spines, "The thought behind it - the effort. That's for you."

Hannibal's expression slackens. He picks out the pictures slowly - six from a dozen - and lays them in a row in front of Will. "Tell me about them."

"Rapist, pedophile, abuser, dirty cop with a hand in the human trafficking business, serial killer," Will's lips quirk up as he taps the picture in question, "the head of a particularly violent street gang."

Six photographs remain. Hannibal arranges them in a row above the first set. "One for each of mine."

"Yes."

They study the glossy corpses together. "Crawford thinks they are all the Ripper's," Will says.

"He did." Hannibal mixes the pictures and stacks them back into their yellow case. A note of disapproval weighs his voice. "Someone pointed him in a different direction recently."

"He did hire me to advise." Will smiles. He plays with the chain keeping him tethered to the table. The links warm between his fingers. "I would have caught you, you know."

"What makes you think you did not?"

Will looks up. Hannibal is watching him carefully, expression inscrutable. Will swallows. "What is Crawford offering me?"

"A reduced sentence in exchange for a partial confession and assistance with the Ripper investigation."

Will laughs. "I suppose he has to try." He slants a smile Crawford's way. The man is glaring steadily at them. Will turns back to Hannibal. "And you?"

"I am not the one in need of salvation."

A slow, pleased grin stretches Will's lips. "But there is something you want. Something only I can give you." Will leans closer, as close as he can without standing up. "Are you looking for a purpose, Hannibal?"

"Hardly."

"Companionship, then."

"I am not interested in vigilantism." Hannibal's expression does not shift. Will smiles at the evasive phrasing. He stretches his hand to tap the table, reaching for the folder of macabre pictures. 

"The Ripper did not choose at random."

"I do not seek society's rotten fruits, Will."

"Perhaps you should. They taste better, you know." Will props his chin on a cuffed hand. Hannibal's eyes dip to his lips before climbing back up. "Harder game always does. What fun is it to chase a lamb when you have the strength to take down a wolf?"

Hannibal smiles. "Am I the wolf in this scenario?" Will smirks and shifts away, legs spreading under the table.

"I am very good at handling canines."

Hannibal lets out a startled puff of amusement. "This is what you are offering me, then. A leashed collar and a spot at your feet."

"The best spot," Will corrects with a grin. "No. What I am offering you is an opportunity. It is too late for the boy you were, it is too late for your sister. But there are others waiting to be saved and many, many more to be damned."

Hannibal watches Will speak. Will sees his mind work but cannot determine its purpose. It is a singularly spectacular thing. No one else has ever managed to hide as well from him.

"Dear Will," Hannibal breathes. "You are driven by guilt. Will you not regret donning the hide of the monster once your anger over Ms. Hobbs' death is appeased?"

Will swallows over a lump of broken glass. Tit for tat; Will had said it himself. Mischa for Abigail. Will speaks quietly, confidently. The world past Hannibal's shadowed face falls away.

"Abigail Hobbs opened my eyes to the limits of my profession." Will smiles, humorless. His hands curve in the empty air before clenching into fists. "Someone else showed me what to do about it."

Hannibal exhales slowly. After a minute, he stands. He does not move away. Will watches him placidly. Hannibal's right hand rests on the folder, palm flat.

"A week."

Will nods. Hannibal looks and looks at him.

He turns away brusquely. Will bows his head to hide a smile.

 

* * *

 

Seven days crawl by on their knees. Will does his best to sleep, eat, be patient but it is difficult. The uncertainty of Hannibal's place in his life has his brain buzzing with giddy restlessness. If Hannibal says yes. If he says no. A hunt is certain, but the prey is not. Will would not have minded the Chesapeake Ripper's blood on his hands a few months ago. He still might not, but it seems like such a waste.

Will thinks himself into insomnia the first couple of days. He shakes off the despondency on the third morning, blinks in the red-rimmed ceiling, and sets to perfecting his contingency plan. Will is not quite done with the world. He will not allow a blind justice to keep him caged, now that he knows his purpose within it.

Will would rather not place his freedom in the hands of someone as malleable as Matthew Brown, but time is short and his captors are strangely silent. So he talks with Matthew the way Hannibal taught him to and courts the man's awed affections into servitude. Matthew is so terribly eager to please, so starved for attention. The whole thing is much too easy. It leaves Will feeling like scum.

On the seventh day, a tall woman in a bespoke suit stalks up to Will's cell. She has a briefcase in one hand and a mobile in the other. Will's throat clenches. Beverly possesses the same kind of effortless intimidation.

"Good morning, Mr. Graham," she says. "My name is Iva Grey. I am your lawyer."

"Am I free?" Will blurts out.

The woman smiles."Charges dropped, no chance for reinstatement." She pockets her phone and waves at her scowling escorts. "Now, please."

"Doctor Chilton is on his way," one of the guards protests.

"Doctor Chilton's whereabouts do not concern me."

"But-"

Grey's smile is cold. "Officer, please do your job before I slap an obstruction of justice charge on your record."

The man's cheeks grow ruddy with anger. "Yes, M'am."

The cell is unlocked. The two guards stand on either side of the door, eyes averted. Will steps past them. Grey starts walking. Will falls in step with her, vaguely wondering if he is still asleep.

"The documents are all taken care of. Sign here and here," Will does, handwriting sloppy after so long without a pen in hand. He hands the clipboard back to Grey. She slips it into her briefcase. "You are all set. There is a car waiting for you outside. I will take care of the human logistics here."

"I - thank you, but -"

"How?" Grey aids; Will nods. "Sloppy legislative work on the FBI's side. Broslaw's disappearance was their only hard claim. Once the body showed up in mob territory, they had to throw the case."

Will swallows. "The Italian mafia?" Grey nods. "That's, um, fortunate."

"Not for Mr. Broslaw." Grey smiles and extends a hand. Will takes it reflexively. "Good day, Mr. Graham. And good luck."

"Thank you."

Will watches Grey disappear down another hallway. He is in the BSHCI lobby. The reception staff eyes him warily from behind a wall of bulletproof glass. The guards stationed by the entrance glare. Will bites his lips over a giddy smile.

There is no car outside. There is a limo. Will stares at the dark-tinted windows and gleaming stretch of metal, then forces himself onward. The driver walks out to open the door for him and calls him "Sir." Will tries to smile at the man over choking embarrassment. The driver's polite expression does not falter. He waits until Will is settled before closing the door and making his way back around the car.

Will looks around the spacious interior, wide-eyed. Black leather hugs thickly cushioned seats on three sides. The fourth is taken by a bar encased in glass and lit from inside with soft, golden light. The floor and walls are carpeted in crushed gray. Will half-expects to see Hannibal reclining on the seat across from him. The man is not foolish enough to draw such an intimate connection between them so early in the game, of course. His absence still stings a little, logical as it is.

There is a large, yellow envelope on one of the seats. It bulges at the bottom. Will tears the seal and upends it. There is a change of clothing inside: Blue dress shirt, black slacks. Soft, white undergarments that have Will's brows rising in bemused mirth. The wallet filled with cash is less humorous. Will scowls at it for a bit before grudgingly setting it aside. It will be of help.

A slick cell phone tumbles in his lap last. It opens to Will's fingerprint, already configured. Will changes quickly, stuffing the institution-issued uniform inside the torn envelope. Then he picks up the phone and dials the only number listed under Contacts.

"Will?"

Will exhales. The worry that had weighted his thoughts for days - months - spills out, lanced. He leans his head back against the seat. "Hannibal."  

"I trust your release went smoothly."

"It did." Will waits a beat; Hannibal hums. "The _mob_ , Hannibal?"

"Merely collecting a favor. It proved a rather neat solution."

Will lets out a startled chuckle. "I could have pled self-defense. He did assault me."

"Yes." Hannibal is silent for a beat. When he speaks again, the growling darkness has left his voice. "Perhaps if you had stopped at tearing off his tongue."

"It wasn't the only thing touching me."

"I am aware."

Will leans further into the seat, getting comfortable. "He followed me, and you followed him. What a sight we must've made." Hannibal's low chuckle has Will grinning. "Where's the car taking me?"

"My home, naturally."

"That's a bad idea."

"I am preparing lunch."

"Still a bad idea. Too intimate, too obvious. Crawford already has it in for you; a connection between us at this point might push him to active suspicion." Hannibal is silent. Will sighs."I promised to guide you. Let me do my job."

"What do you suggest?"

"We take it slow. A few dates here and there. Sightings around town - strictly platonic, at first. I'll invite Beverly along at some point. She'll relate to Crawford. Steady build-up."

"How long?" Hannibal asks.

"Two months should do it." Hannibal makes a disgruntled, unhappy noise. Will grins. "Come on. You've gone through most of your life without knowing me."

"Which is why I am hard-pressed to let a single moment in your company slip by now."

Will's mouth softens. He clears his throat but the big, stupid lump lodged there won't budge. "We can cheat a little. We can - I mean, I want," his voice falters. But Will is no longer afraid of himself, no longer sends parts of who he is into dark places to starve and turn savage. Here, now, he will get what he needs. "I want your mouth on me."

"As soon as I see you," Hannibal promises, words gravely. "On my knees, perhaps."

Will smothers a needy whine with his palm. "Fuck, Hannibal. Not - I'm not jerking off in the damn _limo_."

"You did promise me a spot at your feet." Hannibal sounds terribly pleased with himself. Will rolls his eyes and feels fondness swell in his chest. This. This may actually work.

"I will see you soon," he says. "Oh, and Hannibal? When I want you to kneel, I'll _make_ you."

Will hangs up to the sound of a breathy sigh. He spends a few minutes more smiling down at his new phone. Good thinking on Hannibal's part; the one Will had brought into the BSHCI had most certainly been compromised.

Will types a short message to a number he knows from memory and hits send. Then he shimmies down a long stretch of leather until he gets to the privacy button. "Let me out here, please." He will take the bus out of Baltimore, then a cab the rest of the way to Wolf Trap. The more hops between him and Hannibal, the better.

"But sir, your drop-off is scheduled-"

"I know," Will cuts through the driver's flustered explanation. "Sorry. Change of plans."

Will's phone buzzes ten minutes into a rumbling bus ride.

[found all ur pieces?]

Will smiles. [yes] he sends back.

Beverly responds quickly, two messages stacking on top of each other:

[i'm glad]

[love you, will]

Will blinks several times. The world is strangely smudged. [love you too]

Will deletes the messages, just in case. He feels unmoored. Free in a way he has never been - not as a child, certainly not as an adult.

The bus is crowded. Will stands toward the back, hand wrapped around a metal pole. People press close around him. Voices laugh and wrangle and gossip in half a dozen languages, pull Will into two dozen lives. Will looks around. He sees the teenagers giggling in a corner, the old woman sleeping with her bag clutched to her chest, the couple holding hands. Will sees them all.

He is no longer afraid to look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a long journey. Thank you for your support <3 I hope you enjoyed Will's Swan Song - a preclude for a new life.
> 
> _**Carmen Cygni** _
> 
> _The swan song (Ancient Greek: κύκνειον ᾆσμα; Latin: carmen cygni) is a metaphorical phrase for a final gesture, effort, or performance given just before death. (via Wiki)_


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